


Etched with Tears

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay
Genre: Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Kay AU, Kay!verse, Pregnancy, Shock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-07-18 15:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 33,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7321531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christine returns to Erik earlier than she was supposed to, and for a time all is well, until suddenly it is not, and she must learn to forge her own path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The End

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a misheard line in Loreena McKennitt's 'Dante's Prayer' - what I thought was "etched with tears" was "patched with tears", but I find "etched" makes for a better title. This fic is very much a work in progress, and so updates cannot be promised to come frequently, but I do have a plan for it.

He breathes his last in Christine's arms. She is holding him, rocking him back and forth, her lips pressed to his clammy forehead as she hums. And she feels him gasp, once, twice, great gasps that shudder through him before he lies still, so much heavier, now. Her eyes sting hot and she swallows against the aching tightness in her throat, shifting to rest her cheek against him though she does not stop humming. If she stops humming the pain will come back and bring the nightmares, and he will wake thrashing, his eyes wild. It is her duty to keep him safe, to keep holding him and humming. Her heart twists painfully and she tightens her grip, squeezing her eyes shut.

Her fault, _her fault._..

They were not married in the Madeleine, nor even before a priest, but here in this very room the night she returned to him. (He stared at her, eyes trailing over her dress and her face and the distinct lack of a wedding ring or invitation. He swallowed hard, eyes watering and fingertips ghosting over her cheek as if he were not quite certain she was there. “Why are you here?” His voice pitched low thrilled through her. “It is much too soon.” And she smiled at him, her eyes stinging. “I could not stay with Raoul.” She did not whisper, nor murmur, though her voice was soft. “Not after everything.”) He slipped his ring onto her finger with Nadir the sole witness, and kissed it gently, and kissed her cheek and her forehead and as tears trickled down his cheeks she softly kissed his lips and they stood in each other’s embrace for an eternity.

She should have _seen_ , should have _suspected_...

Five months. Can it only be five months? Surely it is a lifetime of having him in her arms.

He is not moving. _Why is he not moving?_

She is dreaming. She is surely dreaming. She fainted in rehearsal and dreamt Darius’ arrival, the mumbled excuse and the news spoken in the passageway. His jaw was clenched tight; it should have been the giveaway. She should have known the moment she laid eyes on him, because why would Darius come to her in rehearsal? ( _Of course_ it was Erik.) And her head spins, the whole world tilting, falling, but if she is dreaming, why does it feel as if a train has ploughed through her chest, leaving only a haemorrhaging hollow where her heart ought to be?

But he was still breathing. Still breathing as she ran to him through the tunnels, almost spraining her ankle when the folds of her dress tripped her and Darius steadied her. And she found him limp on his black couch, lying against Nadir who had tears in his eyes and was holding him up to help him breathe, Ayesha curled in a ball at Erik’s waist and his mask thrown aside, face slack in unconsciousness. She swapped places with Nadir, and gently took her husband in her arms, wrapping her fingers tight around his cold ones and softly calling his name. His eyelids parted, just a fraction, just enough for her to see a rim of hazel iris before they slipped closed again. And she kissed his lips and prayed that he could feel her, though he could not kiss her back.

His fingers were always so cold...

He was quiet the last few days, and tired, though he waved off her concerns. It was _she_ who insisted that Nadir come to play chess while she rehearsed. She did not want him to be alone down here while she was away, though he protested that he had been looking after himself perfectly well since long before she was born, _thank you very much_. She did not argue with him, simply patted his hand and kissed his forehead and left their bed to go and make breakfast. (He hugged her close, afterwards, and made her promise to “hurry back,” and she could feel his heart beating in his chest, the same heart that’s betrayed him now, and she promised “I’ll be as quick as I can” and kissed him and she never stopped to wonder that maybe he knew something that she did not.)

She should have stayed, today. Should have skipped rehearsal and stayed in their bed with her arms wrapped tight around him and his head pillowed on her chest. He would have enjoyed that, however much he protested that she should not miss rehearsal on his account. She could have sang to him, instead of holding him with a throat so tight that she could barely speak. Another wife might have suspected and insisted on staying, but she was too blind to him or else he was too good at hiding how truly ill he was and now-

She can't breathe. It’s crushing her throat, a noose tight, squeezing so that her lungs burn for breath but she can't breathe, not with him lying in her arms, heavy and cold already. How can she breathe when he is not?

She gasps, and swallows, the stinging tears bursting finally free from behind their barricade.

* * *

 

What feels like many hours later and is certainly uncountable minutes, she composes herself, catching her breath and choking back her tears though her throat still aches. Her vision is blurred when she opens her eyes, and she wipes away the remnants of her weeping, sitting up straighter, careful not to jostle him. He does not protest as she moves. She did not expect him to.

(And somewhere deep in her heart the small flicker of hope withers and dies.)

Nadir, faithful dear Nadir, is still sitting on the edge of the couch, Erik's left hand held in his. His eyes are heavy, face pale and pinched and when he catches her gaze he sighs and swallows and murmurs, "My condolences, Christine."

( _Monsieur Khan kisses her hand, and smiles. "May I be the first to offer my congratulations, Madame." Beside her Erik giggles like a child. She never imagined that he could make such a sound. "And likely the last too, Nadir." She feels herself smile at this dear old friend of her husband's and says, "Please call me Christine, Monsieur.”_ )

It feels like someone has knocked all of the air out of her lungs and she has to gasp a breath, her eyes threatening to sting again. _Condolences_. Of course. And yet the word carries so much, weighs so much and she can't bear it. She heard too much of it before, after her father, and now it rings so very _different_ , cuts a little deeper and she gasps a breath, her heart pounding.

Her voice is rough, not her own as she speaks around the aching pain. "And mine, Nadir." He knows - knew - Erik so much longer than her, so very many years, knew a whole world of him so different from hers _of course_ she must offer-of course.

He gives her a watery smile, places his free hand on top of hers. It is so warm, so soft, so utterly _different_ from what she is used to, his dark skin startling beside her smooth white. "Anything you need me for, I am at your disposal."

And she doesn't know what to say, because how can she? Erik is dead in her arms (it will take some getting used to, those words, _Erik is dead_ ) and he is not yet quite cold, still a trace of warmth lingering. How can she know what to say? She nods, and manages a soft _thank you_ , and he nods in return and stands, murmuring "I will...leave you alone a little while." He shuffles out before she can thank him, again.

She surveys the room, at once so familiar and strange, and wonders where Darius is. It matters not, not now.

Swallowing, Christine looks down at the still face of Erik in her arms, and raising his hand to her lips and kissing it. And he might be dead, but if she could she would hold him close to her, like this, forever.

 


	2. Down Once More

Madame Christine gives Darius a list of things to acquire for the burial. Scented oils - juniper and lavender. Flowers - white roses, lilies, forget-me-nots, lilacs. Candles. A sheet of white linen for a shroud. She mentions a bottle of blessed water in her dressing room, and a set of holy beads and says she will go upstairs to collect those herself. He senses that she does not want to offend him by asking him to bring them to her, and knows also that she cannot bear to leave the fien- Erik's side now. As he pockets the list he musters a kind smile for her, swallows the urge to hug and protect her, and promises to detour by her dressing room after and return through the mirror.

Whatever he may have thought of Erik, Darius cannot bear to bring Madame Christine more pain now.

He has not felt so protective of someone other than Master Nadir in many long years, not since young Master Reza. But Madame Christine is so very young herself - little more than a child, really - and after all she has been through for her to lose her husband now. If it were within his power to shield her from such grief…

(No, no. It is inappropriate, _not his place_ , to feel such a way about her. She is not his mistress, he has no attachment to her other than her friendship with Master Nadir. He cannot permit himself to dwell on the pain she must be going through.)

Darius forces himself to think of Erik, and finds that it is a great deal easier to remember him as Madame Christine's husband, not the demon that he was before. He was undoubtedly a changed man with her in his life.

Before her return to him, in the week that she spent with Monsieur le Vicomte, Darius travelled down below the Opéra with Nadir bringing supplies. They found Erik, lying on his black couch and idly plucking the strings of his violin, staring into melancholic space. He did not notice their presence, the fact that he was not wearing his mask, or his regal cat curled in a ball on his chest. After so many years, it was the first time that Darius saw the face which Erik tried so very hard to hide.

He did not feel distaste, only a terrible pity. And now there is a great deal of sadness, too.

Such thoughts, memories truly, occupy his mind as he makes his rounds of the shops. With two packages, a neatly arranged basket of the requested flowers, and two bottles of scented oils clinking in his overcoat pocket, he returns to the Opéra. He knows the entrances very nearly as well as Erik does ( _did_ ) having spent so very long observing him, and slips inside amidst the bustle of post-rehearsal performers, making his way to Madame Christine's dressing room without notice.

It is not so very long since he pulled her away from rehearsal with these very people. Three hours, perhaps, at most. And he was gentle, terribly gentle, as he told her of Erik's collapse, a twisting ache in his heart at having to be the one to bear such bad news.

Her husband was playing chess with Master Nadir and seemed well if tired, until he stiffened in his chair, his right arm tight around his chest. “Perhaps you should lie down, Erik,” Nadir said, face furrowed with worry, but Erik merely shook his head and whispered, “It will pass…in a moment.” His mask hid his face, but Darius was certain that his jaw was clenched as he nudged one of his black bishops across the board and captured the white queen. “Chris…tine would…worry,” he gasped, lying back and rubbing the centre of his chest with his fist.

Nadir seemed to take no notice of the loss of his queen, eyes riveted on Erik, and hardly had the words “Perhaps she would be right to,” passed his lips when a strangled cry came from Erik and he slipped bonelessly out of his chair.

Both Darius and Nadir were at his side in a moment, pulling off his cravat to help him breathe and following it with the mask. His pulse was thready, skin pallid and clammy and they lay him on the couch before Darius fetched a bottle of brandy from the pantry. They tried to rouse Erik with the vapours, but all of the result was a pained whimper, a brief furrowing of his forehead, and Darius was sent above to bring Madame Christine down.

He did not have to be told how very grave Erik’s condition was.

(He did not want to have to _think_ how very grave Erik’s condition was.)

Now, back in the dressing room, he stops at the mirror and lays his head against the cold glass. It will not do to dwell on how it happened. He cannot permit himself to think of it now, not when he has been entrusted with such a sacred duty as gathering the necessary supplies for his burial. He must remain composed, and professional, unruffled in the face of such tragedy, for it is a tragedy now though it might not have been before.

Swallowing hard against the images of Erik’s death playing before his eyes, Darius slips through the mirror and begins a very different journey down to the house on the lake than the one of a few hours ago.

He has not gotten very far when he hears  a voice call him. He looks around – and up – and sees nobody, so continues on, the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. There comes another call and this time it seems to come from right under him. He might go on by, and forget he ever heard such a thing. It would be wise to do so, to prevent himself from getting entangled in any intrigue at a time such as this, but it does truly sound as if there is someone calling for help from _under_ him, and if that were the case then he would be in the wrong for ignoring it. Resolutely cursing the interruption and vowing to walk faster to make up the time lost in investigation, Darius sets down the parcels and baskets and placing the lamp beside him gets down on his hands and knees.

Immediately, his eyes perceive a crack in the floor, and the realisation is an unsettling one. There is a trapdoor, beside the wall. Now _that_ one he did not know about. It blends in almost-seamlessly, a masterful piece of construction that leaves no doubt as to whom the constructor was. Darius did not even find it earlier travelling up and down with Madame Christine, but then again he did keep to the centre of this passageway that time, and afterwards she ran headlong back down and he had to keep up with her.

The trapdoor is really more of a false floor, one designed to spring back up and disguise itself after capturing an unsuspecting victim. It has a catch on the other side to open it properly, clearly for Erik’s convenience, and so Darius studies the mechanism briefly and springs it open.

His lamp shines on the golden-blond head of one Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, and all Darius can do is sigh. Just his luck to have to rescue _the Vicomte_ at a time like this. What brought him down here anyway when he knows, or should know, well enough to stay away?

“Give me your hand, Monsieur,” he says, stretching his arm down. The Vicomte hesitates a moment, and so he adds, “I can vouch that you will be safe.”

“That’s good enough for me, Monsieur,” the Vicomte replies, sounding weary, and a moment later Darius feels a soft, slender hand wrap around his own. It takes a bit, and Darius is panting for breath, both shoulders and the back of his neck aching by the time he has the Vicomte out and the trapdoor swung shut.

“The fiend never warned me about that one,” the Vicomte grumbles, dusting off his overcoat.

Darius fights off the very powerful urge to slap the boy. To disrespect the newly-dead in such a way churns his stomach and he buries his fingernails deep in the palms of his hands to restrain himself. His palms sting, and he takes a deep breath, reminding himself that of course the boy does not know what has become of Erik and perhaps his frustration is justified. “Perhaps _Erik_ ,” and he lays some emphasis on the name, “felt justified in keeping trespassers out and felt that warning them of where his trapdoors lie would be defeating the purpose.”

The Vicomte makes a moue of distaste, but deigns not to comment, instead saying “Thank you for pulling me out, Monsieur,” as Darius hands him the two parcels. For a moment he considers also giving the Vicomte the blessed water and beads, then decides that due to their importance they might be safer staying in _his_ pocket instead. The boy hardly seems to even notice the added parcels he has to carry. “I thought he might have come looking for me when I did not make our meeting, but apparently not.”

“Your meeting?” It catches Darius off guard, to say the least, to hear that the boy might be an expected guest, and his stomach twists though he does not betray it, merely raises an eyebrow, though the Vicomte may not be able to see it in the low light. What might have possessed Erik to invite the Vicomte down?  Surely he was not planning on killing him _now_.

Though with Erik, Darius cannot say that he would be much surprised.

“Yes,” the Vicomte nods. “He invited me to come down while Christine was at rehearsal. He said he had something to discuss with me, then I fell down the trapdoor. Rehearsal must be long over by now. It really is a wonder that he did not come looking.”

Darius sighs, and swallows through the tightness in his throat. Whatever opinion he may hold of Erik, it is not pleasant to give the news of a man’s death, and his heart feels as heavy as a stone. “I imagine he might have come looking for you, if he had not suffered a serious attack of the heart and died several hours ago.” It is best to be blunt so that he may not fall victim to an unprofessional wave of emotion.

At his words, the Vicomte visibly pales. The parcels slip from his grasp, and he scrambles to catch them before they hit the ground. Holding them gently in his hands and smoothing his fingers over the wrapping to be certain that it is undisturbed, he straightens, and ashen-faced asks, “And Christine?”

_Of course his first thoughts jump to her._ “She was with him at the end. He did not suffer for long.” Though whether Darius is saying that more for himself or for the Vicomte, he does not know. “I cannot promise that she will be pleased to see you, Monsieur.” For a moment, it is on the tip of his tongue to warn the young man against upsetting her, but it is not his place to do so and the warning dies in his throat.

The Vicomte nods, swallowing. “I understand. Just, please. Take me to her.”

 


	3. Restraint

She studies his face and wills him to move, to open his eyes or to smile at her. Even a frown would be nice, would be a gift beyond measure. But he remains stubbornly still, face slack and lips slightly parted, and it takes all that she has not to reach out and shake him, to slap him and hit him and insist that he _wake up now, Erik, please._ Instead, she cups his cold cheek gently and plants one soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, and swallows the ache in her throat. It would not do for her to cry over him when there is still so much to be done. He would not want her tears, would refuse them and hurl a barbed comment at her that she has _such a special talent for crying_.

She gasps and shakes the memory away. Not that night, not now. She does not wish…she cannot _bear_ to think of his insanity now.

Nadir helps her, gently, quietly, and makes no move to hide the tears welling in his own eyes as they wash the body, and dress it. (She chose his finest dress suit, the one he wore the night they married and never wore again after. More than once, after, she watched him caress the silk softly as it hung in the wardrobe, and smile to himself before pulling out a different suit, a different shirt.) She cannot think of him as Erik, not now, not yet, and so it can be only _the body_ because if it becomes _Erik_ she is slightly afraid that she will start crying and not be able to stop. And it would be terribly undignified to break down weeping, when all he ever wanted was dignity. She cannot shame him now at the last.

She should sing for him, while she waits for Darius to return. A hymn, an aria, a half-remembered Swedish lullaby. Each would send him away the way he would like, would be considered a blessing by those ears if those ears were able to hear her. It would be right, to sing, would be observing the rituals but the knot in her chest, the gaping hollow forbids her. Such is the nausea, the numbness, she cannot even summon a melody for to hum to him, so she takes his cold hand in hers and squeezes his fingers and prays he can feel her. Her breath hitches painfully, eyes prickling, when he does not squeeze her fingers back.

For a moment, one made, _glorious_ moment, she thinks she sees his chest rise. Then the illusion shatters and it is a lance in her heart.

She closes her eyes so that they cannot betray her and lays her head on his shoulder.

He still smells of himself. He should not but he does. His heavy cologne lingers on the collar of his shirt, as does the soft aroma of woodsmoke. She bathed him with her own tea rose. He always loved the scent of it, loved to bury his face in her hair and inhale, and swore endlessly that it was incomparable for keeping the nightmares away. It is a gift to him, for to wrap him in it forever. Let no nightmare, no blood-drenched dream, ever taint his soul again.

_I love you, Erik,_ she thinks though the words stop in her throat. _I love you. Remember that, always. I was foolish before, and blind because I was afraid and I am so sorry for it, Erik. So very, very sorry. You mean the world to me. And I will miss you, always. Forever. What do I do without you? How can I live when I do not have you?_

And the long years unfurl before her, the unbearable knowledge that he is dead beneath her hands and there is nothing that she can do and the very words she longs to speak are futile because he cannot hear them, not now. He is past hearing, past feeling, past caring. _Oh, Papa. Please take care of him for me. Please._

The tears stinging her eyes spill over, and she gasps a breath, making no move to stop them as they slip down and damp his jacket. Let him have them. Let him take them with him, something of hers to lie with him forever.

A shuffle, and a drawn, shallow breath catch her ear, forcing her to lift her head from off her dead husband. Darius has returned with a basket of flowers, his jaw clenched tight and behind him, face ashen-pale and eyes wide, carrying two parcels, is Raoul. Her heart thuds sharply, a pain that she swallows, but she cannot look at him, not now. Nadir, sitting at Erik's other side and holding his other hand, has seen the new guest too, and she watches as he swallows and nods in acknowledgement. Always so polite, Nadir, as long as she has known him. A gentleman even now.

It is a great effort, when all that she wants to do is stay sitting beside Erik and keep holding his hand, but she forces herself to stand and let go of his fingers.

"Did you manage to get everything, Darius?" she asks, and schools her voice into impassivity. Her eyes still water, but she does not rub the tears away, instead smoothes the creases from her dress.

He nods and murmurs, "Yes, Madame," setting the basket down on the table and withdrawing two glass bottles from one pocket of his coat, producing her dark blue rosary beads and a bottle of holy water from another. Her throat tightens again, at his thoughtfulness that he went out of his way to get these things from her dressing room, and she watches as he takes the two packages from Raoul and adds them to the collection. With a flourish he pulls the string tying the first one closed and opens it to reveal a neat bundle of black candles, and in the other one is a folded sheet of white linen.

She swallows, and nods, fighting to keep her voice steady. "Thank you. Would you mind setting them up around...around him?" If she hears her voice calling him _Erik_ she knows she will crack.

Darius nods, and from his fob pocket pulls out a box of matches. "Of course, Madame. Anything you need. Would you like them set in dishes, so that they do not pool on the carpet?"

In her distraction she has not considered that, and she hesitates. Of course it would be a shame to stain the red carpet with black wax. Erik would call it a tragedy. But now…does it matter now? Does anything truly matter now? Better to let Darius decide what to do, and again a wave of gratitude at this thoughtfulness washes over her. “Whatever...whatever you think might be best."

He nods slowly, taking five candles in his large hand. "All right, Madame."

Gathering all of her resolve, she looks away from Darius, from stalwart, reliable Darius, and instead lets her eyes rest on her ex-fiancé, as she asks, "Would you mind helping him, Raoul, please?" Titles have no place in the world, not this world. Not now.

At her words, Raoul draws his gaze away from Erik and looks at her, his eyes heavy and sympathetic. "Anything you ask, Christine. I am at your service.”

* * *

 

With work to be done, it is easier to assume efficiency once more, to push the numbness and pain away into a corner of her heart for later. While Raoul and Darius work in tandem setting the black candles in dishes and cups in a ring around Erik, Christine takes her rosary beads and twines them between Erik's fingers, laying his joined hands carefully on his chest. Carefully, she rubs the oils into his throat and wrists – juniper for protection, lavender for peace, and both of them for her love for him. It is all that she can do to keep him safe, now, and she prays that it will be enough, will let him rest at last.

The holy water she uses to bless him, making the sign of the cross on his forehead and lips and, opening his shirt for a moment, over his heart, murmuring as she does, "Glory to you, oh Lord." The ritual soothes some of the pain in her chest, because _this_ she knows, _this_ she does not have to work out. Nadir watches as she re-buttons Erik's shirt, and then carefully unhooks his own pocket watch from his waistcoat. For a moment, he loops the thick chain between his fingers and closes his eyes. It is her turn to watch as his breath hitches,lips twisting briefly before he re-opens his eyes and sets the watch down. She is too numb to question him when he unclips Erik's watch and offers it to her.

"You should keep that." His voice is hoarse, from tears and hours of disuse. "He would want you to have it."

She accepts it wordlessly. The gold is heavy in her hand, and she curls her fingers around it, squeezing it, the chain digging into her fingers so that she is certain the links will be imprinted upon her skin forever. Nadir clips his own watch to Erik's waistcoat, slips it into his pocket.

"He stole it often enough," he murmurs, voice cracking, then stands and goes into the kitchen. Her eyes follow him as he disappears from view and she does not realise she has been staring until she blinks, and looks back down at Erik. He is so very pale, almost grey, a bluish tinge about his lips, the soft glow of the newborn candlelight flickering over his hollow features. She is long-used to his being pale. It is natural, with his face being constantly hidden under a mask. But grey...and her stomach lurches, reminding her that he is gone. Truly gone, this time. He will never look at her again, touch her again, speak to her again and all at once the tears she's been fighting against rush to the surface, blinding her, weakening her knees and she sinks back into her chair, bands of iron tight around her chest. She gasps for breath, chokes on the air, her lungs stuttering against the pain, and swallowing hard she lays her head on his chest, letting the tears flow and imagining that it is his arms warm around her that she feels, and not the cold knowledge that he is gone.

 


	4. Day by Day

He is warm, pressed to her back, his breaths soft against her neck. He murmurs softly, presses one delicate kiss to her skin and she could stay here forever, wrapped in his embrace, his arm heavy draped over her side, fingers twined with her own. A smile curves her lips and she nuzzles into her pillow, pressing back into him-

And finds empty space.

He is not there, not _here_. Her eyes snap open, an icy chill slithering through her blood. The bed is empty, aside from her. Definitely empty, and cold. Where-?

It rushes back in a torrent that takes her breath away. Darius interrupting rehearsal. The weight of Erik in her arms, his head heavy against her shoulder. Tea rose. The candlelight. His wedding band glinting golden on his finger, her blue rosary beads entwined. Nadir's arm steadying her when she thought she might faint as Darius and Raoul lowered Erik out of sight.

She sits straight up in bed and cannot breathe, black spots dancing in the air before her, her heart pounding so hard that she can feel it behind her eyes. She cannot breathe. _She can't breathe!_ Her lungs burn, throat dry and her chest painfully tight. He's dead. Oh, God, he's dead. How...how is he dead?

Her eyes burn, an aching lump in her throat that she cannot swallow, but no tears spill forth and she gasps, sucking in a cold breath, every bone and muscle trembling, crying out that _he is gone_.

* * *

 

The bed is so big, without him, so empty. She never realised before how very big it is. Even when she sleeps (slept) and he remains (remained) at his organ it does not (oh, _God_ no) seem such an expanse, and now...

She wraps herself tight in the sheets and hides, and hopes that sleep will reveal it all to have been a nightmare, and she will wake up, safe in his arms and he will assure her that his _health is perfectly satisfactory_ and soothe her, and it will be so strange because normally it is the other way around.

He cannot really be dead. Of course he is not. It is a cruel hoax, one of his tricks, like hiding from her on the bank of the lake when she came to visit in an experiment to see how she would react.

(And she is aware, even as she thinks it, that she is bordering on hysterical, and this is so very much worse than his hiding from her.)

* * *

 

Nadir comes to call, to check in on her, and she pretends to be sleeping. To face him, to even _consider_ facing him now, is more than she can bear. He does not venture into her room - he is too much of a gentleman for that - but he lingers in the drawing room a while after calling her, and she could swear that she hears him cry. Her heart aches, crying out to hug him and assure him that Erik is only playing with them, but her body is unwilling to move from the bed, and she is unable to tell him a lie.

* * *

 

Raoul calls, and she tells him to leave. She cannot bear to see him now, to leave this bed that she shared with Erik. If she stays long enough perhaps he will come back. He is only on a trip, after all. Gone out sketching, the urge to create luring him and he has ever been its prisoner, be it art or music. He will be back, and he would be so very angry if he knew she talked to Raoul, and if she sees his sad, pitying eyes she thinks she might scream.

* * *

 

Ayesha prowls through the house, yowling for her master, and only when she has hoarsed herself does she enter Christine's room, and hop onto the bed, and press in beside her master's widow, her furry little body warm through Christine's dress. And Christine lays a hand on her back and vows not to leave. They are each all that the other has, now.

* * *

 

On their wedding night, she led him to their bed, and before they could even contemplate making love he broke down crying. She held him close, and kissed him, and whispered every kind word she could until he drifted into sleep, overwhelmed by the fact of her love.

Now she lies in bed alone, dreaming his arms around her and her eyes remain dry as if to spite her for the tears in her heart.

* * *

 

As she held him she promised him children, if he would only live. Promised him a house in the country, and his music published, and his architecture acknowledged, and promised that she would sing for him always, if he would wake again and live. They would have a son, and a daughter, beautiful children both that they would love and protect and that would not fear his face because they would never see him with a mask, would know no different. Every remembered promise feels like another one of his admirably-suited knives in her gut, and she is bleeding to death from hundreds of wounds.

* * *

 

On the second day, she sits in the marble bath. He had a system for heating the water, one that he never quite explained to her, and so as she first steps in it feels like thousands of pins of ice piercing her skin, leaching the heat from her. She numbs to it, soon, her fingertips blue beneath the nail, as blue as his lips were when she last kissed them. If she sits long enough, simply sits, she will develop exposure and die. What a way to die, freezing to death in a bathtub five storeys beneath an opera house. She need not lift a finger. It would be easy. It would not be a sin, merely an accident. These things do happen.

He would take her in his arms again, and warm her in his embrace, and this time, this time they would never part.

She swallows and closes her eyes, lying back, the soft, low notes of his music unfurling cotton-soft around her already and-

Ayesha. Ayesha grumbles and bats her face with a paw and forces her to open her eyes. Ayesha demands to be fed, to have attention lavished on her, and it is with a heavy, cold weariness that Christine opens her eyes and forces herself to step from the bath, too numb to shiver as she wraps herself in a towel.

* * *

 

She burns the dress she wore as he died, uses its heat to warm herself. She could never wear it again, not without remembering how it felt as the life slipped from him, and it is best that she get some use from it instead of leaving it to rot. The bottle of tea rose makes her retch as she pours it into the lake, though she has nothing left to bring up. In a moment, she follows it with his last bottle of morphine, and tries to forget stroking his hair as it coursed through his veins.

* * *

 

She wraps herself in his dressing gown and retreats to their - her - bed. It smells of him, his warmth and his spice, the glint of the needle, the wood of the fire.  Her heart twists, and she wraps herself tighter as if by enshrouding herself in his dressing gown she can get closer to him, reclaim him. Inhaling deeply, she draws the bedsheets tight, and lets herself slip into memories of them, his fingers dancing across the keys of his organ, and his eyes shining golden in the firelight.

* * *

 

On the third day, she sits at his desk with Ayesha in her lap, and writes a letter. It is no ordinary letter. Rather, it is her resignation from the Opera House in order to enter a period of mourning. It is only proper that she observe the ritual. It would be disrespectful of her otherwise, and cannot be disrespectful towards Erik now. He faced enough disrespect in life.

(She does not think that she could sing, if she had to. Her mind is too unwilling to summon words, harmonies. She has buried her music with him, and perhaps that is for the best, now.)


	5. Echoes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long this update has taken! A bout of writer's block, a crisis of confidence and real-life being insanely busy have all conspired to prevent it. However, I am definitely planning to continue this fic, and the next chapter really should not take so long.

The day goes something like this now. She wakes in the bed that for five months she shared with her husband, and now shares with his cat. For as long as she can she keeps her eyes closed, and pretends that he is idly plucking the strings of his violin, or hunched over his drawing desk, or even lying beside her, peacefully asleep, his lips barely open as he breathes softly.

The illusion is not one that she can hold onto, not now when the cold truth is one that she cannot escape. He is not in the drawing room, he is not with his music, he is not lying in this bed beside her. He is six feet underground in his own, old coffin in a grave of his own digging. She sewed him into the shroud herself, and even now she sometimes feels the thin needle cold between her fingertips, an impression of a memory that leaves a ball in her throat and she cannot breathe around it.

(She waits, endlessly, each time for the tears to come but they never do.)

Eventually, bracing herself, she opens her eyes and leaves the bed, illusions all worn thin, and dresses in her black dress. He had it made for her, shortly after their wedding, and presented it to her saying with a touch of sadness that she would likely _need it sooner rather than later_. And she hid it away in the back of her wardrobe and tried to forget its existence, even when he added three more of them as spares, and a couple of greys and whites for later.

_You need not have to worry about such things_ , he said and tried to smile at her but there were tears in his eyes. He was weak, and tired, and she tried to shush him for to conserve his energy but he would not hear a word of it, her hands carefully clasped between both of his. _Dear girl, indulge me in my concern for you. I am only thinking of what will become necessary for to save you the trouble_. His voice so calm, as if he were merely presenting her with options for dinner! _Duck or venison, my dear? Though I confess I feel quite partial to the soup tonight._ She can hear his tone, the precise cadence of the words, but summoning his voice is beyond her.

(She never felt so much like slapping him.)

They had only been married for three weeks when he suffered an attack. That, she knows, is what spurred him on to organise such things for after his death. (And the words come a little easier now, though her heart still stalls at them.) He was playing, quietly, as she read and his fingers faltered on the keys. The jarring notes drew her attention, and before she could ask what was wrong he stopped playing, right hand massaging his left arm.

"I think, perhaps, I will go to bed for a little while," he murmured, more to himself than to her. "It seems I am more tired than I thought."

But Christine knew. Of course she knew, and the moment he stood from the organ he stumbled, knees buckling. She was at his side in an instant, one arm around his waist and his own arm around her shoulders. She did not speak, the words dust in her throat as she carefully supported him to their bed, every thought flittering over the silent prayer of _not now, please God not now, not so soon_. The walk to the room seemed to take a year, never mind that it could only be a handful of minutes, each breath of his faint and harsh in her ear, his head bowed. And he groaned, deep in his throat when they reached the room, and hardly a moment later his eyes rolled as he slipped into unconsciousness. She almost lost her grip on him, then and there, and it took all she had to half-carry him to the bed and lay him down.

She shakes her head, banishes the memory of sitting with him, all night, his hand cold and limp in hers and his soft, pained murmurs.

(She sang, she remembers. Lullabies and gentle arias. Talked until her voice was hoarse, and when at last he half-surfaced to wakefulness she forced him to drink tea, his eyes roving over her face as if he hardly knew her, as if she might hurt him. Two weeks he lay abed after the delirium passed, with her reading to him and Nadir stopping by to play chess, and the very weight of his voice was solemn.)

Even wrapped in her dress, his cloak heavy on her shoulders she is cold, and she knows that it is not due to the underground chill.

She has learned to cook, now, without him. She never had to before. Some of it she learned from watching him, calmly going around the kitchen, and as she mixes porridge, adds a dab of jam, she can almost feel him standing behind her, his fingers light on her elbow.

The porridge catches in her throat. The tea is bitter, churns her stomach and it seems a sin to waste it, any of it, but the twisting ache in her heart condemns her to do so. She drinks it for Nadir when he visits, for Raoul and for Darius too, and pretends not to gag on it.

She has become quite good at pretending, and when Nadir suggests, again, eyes soft and kind, that she come to live with he and Darius ( _we have a spare room, after all_ ) she musters a smile and insists that she _could not possibly impose_.

Throughout her eyes remain stubbornly dry, a desert opened up inside of her chest. The Persian desert, transplanted from Erik's stories by his own hand, and as she sits by his grave after, black jet rosary beads twisted between her fingers, she struggles to even re-call the pitch of his voice. She prays a rosary, prays it twice, mulls the mysteries together, her knees numb and feels his lips petal-soft on her forehead, soft as the flowers - lilies, roses, lilacs - that Nadir brings to lay for him.

The bed is cold, still too big with only Ayesha, and the stillness of the house is suffocating. And it is only as she drifts into sleep that her frayed mind realises that six weeks of grief have robbed her not only of her voice and her appetite and her warmth, but her courses too. A moment later she is asleep, the fact of it lost to her once more.


	6. Discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long it's taking me to write this chapter. I wish I had a valid excuse, but I do not, simply that my inspiration deserted me in spite of all best laid plans. However, I have an extensive plan for this story and do not wish to abandon it. All going well, I should have the next chapter sometime in the next two weeks.

Darius has taken to worry. Nadir knows this, has observed it in the crease of his lips. It has never been in Darius' nature to voice his concerns, not unless the situation looked critical, and so Nadir learned his tells many years ago. The crease of his lips, the trace of a frown, the extra twitch of his fingers on the underside of a plate. All of these things can give away a concern of Darius', and in the last three months he has exhibited them all.

It is Erik's death that has made him worry so. (Even now, it is a struggle to think that he is gone, and Nadir lurches each time at the fact of it.) He is worried for Nadir, and the depth of his grief, worried that it might consume him now when before he could have borne it. (He could never have borne, not truly. As with Rookheeya, as with Reza, he would have grieved for a time and bottled it and tried to hide that stabbing pain. But he cannot bottle it now. There is nothing to bury himself in anymore. He has no more distractions.) He is especially worried over Nadir's newfound hobby of chronicling the time that he _did_ know Erik, the years in Persia and here, in Paris. Every recollection, every scrap of information he ever learned about him. It is a desperate compulsion, one he cannot put into words but he does know that he cannot permit himself to forget. He _cannot_ forget, not after everything, not now.

(Perhaps once he would have wished to, but the world has changed so very much since then.)

He swallows the ball of tears in his throat, lets the scratch of his pen on the page guide him. It is easier to let himself sink into the flow of the words. Another time, another subject, he might write it in his own flowing script yet it feels unnatural to write of Erik in anything but French. Only French could truly capture the stature of him on paper. Darius might worry that he is burying himself in the past, inflicting undue pain by remembering, but there is a release in letting it out now at last. He can sleep a little easier, free of masks and swishing black cloaks.

It is very nearly an exorcism, as Erik once spoke of.

His contemplation is interrupted by the familiar knock of Darius at the study door. He calls him to come in and sets the pen down, turning away from his work. The door opens, and Darius pokes his head in, his face strangely pale.

"Madame Christine is here, Master." His words are soft, and Nadir's heart thuds painfully to hear them. Christine? What could bring her up to see him? Surely there could not be anything wrong.

"Show her in, please, Darius. And will you make us some tea? Lemon, perhaps?" She has taken to drinking it that way, he knows. A habit learned from Erik. One sharp pang of memory lances his heart and he blinks hard, swallowing.

Darius nods his assent, then swallows and murmurs, obviously troubled, "She is quite distraught."

Nadir's throat tightens to hear the words and he nods. "All right."

Darius slips back out, and Nadir covers the pages he has been working on. The compulsion to hide it from Christine is almost as strong as the one to write it, and he finds he cannot explain that either. Perhaps it is simply intuition that it may be too soon to confront her with painful things of Erik's, but he hides it nonetheless. She will not want to know, not now, not if something is troubling her. Best to keep his writings to himself for the time being.

He nods firmly, and adjusts the second armchair in the room, stoking the fire. It is paramount that she be comfortable coming to see him, especially if she is in need of anything. He would not leave her wanting.

Hardly has he arranged the cushions when the door opens and she steps in. It takes him a moment to register that it is truly Christine standing before him, and not a wraith. Her eyes are - if anything - hollower than when he last visited her only two days ago, her face white as a sheet. She settles in the armchair hesitantly, and though she is not crying now, she certainly has been.

"I have some news," she murmurs, without any of the usual preamble and his stomach churns to hear her as he resumes his own chair. "I hope I am not disturbing you."

He shakes his head, and for a moment his heart aches to reach out and hug her but he clamps down tight on the urge. "No. Of course not. You are welcome here at any time, Christine."

“Thank you.” Her eyes water, and he leans across the gap between them, takes her hand as she dabs away the tears. “I don't know where to begin.”

“Take your time. There is no need to rush.” He squeezes her hand, and she squeezes his back, almost clinging on.

Darius bustles in with two cups of tea, sets them down on the side table. He shoots Nadir a look, face taut and brow furrowed before leaving and easing the door closed. Nadir lets her hands go, passes her a cut of tea. She takes it, wraps her hands tight around it, and for a long time they sit in silence, sipping their tea.  He is still learning his new watch, but he strokes his fingers over the brass case and it soothes the ache in his chest, just a little.

Eventually, she raises her eyes to meet his, knuckles white, and takes a breath to steady herself. “I am with child.”

The world spins though her words are careful and Nadir’s heart pounds, his vision narrowing until there is only darkness and Christine’s red-rimmed eyes only pinpricks, her words echoing in his brain. _With child. With child. With child._ She is with child, with _Erik’s_ child. Surely it is impossible. It cannot be. How can she be carrying Erik’s child? It is impossible! He’s dead! It’s wrong. She can’t be. _Wrong wrong wrong_ -

His breath catches in his throat and he gasps, the world coming back into colour as her words reach his ears again, tears trickling now from her eyes. “…doctor thinks maybe four months along…” Four months? That puts it before Erik’s death. _Well of course it’s before Erik’s death. He is the father. How could it be after?_ “…do I do?”

Nadir swallows, scrambles for words with which to answer her. It is so much to take in. So unexpected, and she is looking to him for answers, and he needs to find some, some way of comforting her. The cup trembles in her grasp and he eases it from her, sets it down and grips takes her hand, squeezing it. “You are carrying Erik’s child.” It is an obvious statement, and yet she does not question him, merely nods, lips twisting. “You are four months along, nearly halfway.” She nods again, and he sighs, wishing that he could say _congratulations_ but how can it be _congratulations_ when the father, her husband, is dead? It is a miracle, yes, but it is so much tragedy too and he feels his own eyes prickle, throat tightening. “Oh, Christine.”

A sob escapes her throat, and she collapses forward, into his arms, her tears wet on his shoulder and he is helpless to try and comfort her.

* * *

In the end, after copious amounts of lemon tea and soothing words, Nadir settles her in the guest room for the night. She is in no condition, tired and drained as she is, to return beneath the Opera House. It is clear that she knows that herself, and does not protest when he has Darius prepare the room for her. In truth, he is relieved that she is here where he can keep an eye on her and make certain that she is all right, even if it is only for one night.

Darius has a fire burning in the parlour. Instead of returning to his office, Nadir sinks into his armchair before it, the flames warming him. Every bone aches, creaking as he stretches out. The evening is well passed supper, he knows, but he is not hungry. His heart is too full of sadness.

He never dwelled on what might happen if Erik had a child, remembers a small check of relief in the weeks after his death that _at least there was no child_. And now-and now…

His eyes prickle hot with tears and he bows his head, unable (unwilling?) to stop them. There will be a child, a child that will grow up without a father. His heart aches to protect that child, to protect him as he could not protect Reza. And to protect Christine, too. The poor, dear girl. It is infinitely too cruel for her to have to bear this. To be widowed and become a mother within a few short months. It is _wrong,_ it _defies the natural order_. And Erik never spoke much of his parents but Nadir knows that his mother was once the same and it is _twisted_ that the past should repeat itself in this way.

Christine will have every ounce of help that he can give her, so help him. This child will be loved and protected and never want for anything, and Christine too. He will offer the room to her again, let her stay here as long as she wants. As he formulates the plan and considers what must be done, Nadir can feel his control coming back to him, little by little. Scrubbing a hand over his tear-roughened cheeks, he nods resolutely. He could not live with himself if he did not do everything within his power. It is only right, only fair, that she be looked after. And he is more than willing to take that on, if she will permit it.

 


	7. Whirlwind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is appearing a little sooner than expected. Warnings for a great deal of internal angst, grief, and issues surrounding wanting a pregnancy.

His breath is soft against her throat, featherlight and warm. She shifts beneath him, lets him re-settle, his hand warm on the bump that her belly has become. _“My poor Christine,”_ he murmurs hoarsely, voice devoid of its old beauty, _“your poor Erik has hurt you so.”_

She smiles, sinks deeper into the sheets, rests her hand on top of his, and feels only the silk of her dress. Her eyes snap open, fingers of light filtering through the blinds, illuminating a room that is _not_ her own, is too _bright_ , too _rich_ in reds and greens and soft blues. Her heart pounds painfully and she shoots up. Not her bed, not her locker, not her chair and there are _blinds_. She has no blinds, there are no windows underground and no need for them and-

And she is in Nadir’s guest room. It comes back to her in a bang, her heart twisting. She is in Nadir’s guest room, not her room under the Opera House. _Why_ -?

Oh. Yes. The strength leaches from her bones and she sinks back into the bed, feeling suddenly so small in this room. She went to him, didn’t she? After she visited the doctor, after-

Her throat aches, eyes too heavy to cry as she remembers. A baby. She’s carrying a baby. Erik’s baby. _Erik_.

The hollow in her chest expands, and engulfs her, stealing her breath and she gasps, curling tight into a ball. _He’s dead_. He’s dead and she’s going to have a baby, have _his_ baby, and he’ll never know because _he’s dead_ and she’s alone and none of it is all right, none of it is fair, it’s all wrong, every bit of it, wrong and unnatural and she wants to scream but the scream strangles itself in her throat and all she can manage is a weak whimper as she curls tighter, eyes squeezed tight against the gaping, bleeding hole in her heart.

They were only ever intimate a handful of times, and the pain lances through her chest now to remember. He was too nervous, too shy, and then too overwhelmed by it. And she wondered, briefly, for a time if he might have lived if they had never been intimate at all, then she pushed such considerations aside as ridiculous but now-

Now there is something to show for it. A baby, living inside of her who will become a child, will grow into a man or a woman and Erik can never know and the baby can never know either, not truly, what his father was like, can only ever hear stories, and what is she to do? What _can_ she do?

She knows, has heard before from the other chorus girls her former comrades, that there are ways to _take care_ of these things, and she never wanted to know what they meant by that, the very words making her shiver because they could not bode well. There are women, she knows, who give their children away. Even now, the news so fresh, so new, not even a day old yet, her heart rebels against the very notion of harming Erik’s child, or giving it away. It is _Erik’s_ child. It is made of his love for her, of her for him.

It is something of him that she can have, forever.

The bands around her heart ease, loosen, and she rolls onto her back, fingers scrabbling on the locker to find the watch, his watch. She always carries it with her, now, and her fingers brush the golden chain, wrap themselves around it and draw it to her. The gold is cold pressed to her heart, and she sucks in a breath, breathes it out slowly to soothe the pounding in her chest. She cannot permit herself to panic, not now. She must remain calm, must think.

What would Erik think?

The question twists, an ache inside of her. What would he think? Would he want a child? Would he worry? Would he be furious? Would he love it? So many questions that tumble and she cannot answer, cannot begin to even _consider_ answering them because she cannot ask him, must base it on what she knows. He cared deeply for Reza, she knows, has heard about it in quiet moments from Erik himself first and then from Nadir. But that was different. That was not his own child, that was Nadir’s child, and if it _were_ his own-

No. She cannot let herself think of what Erik might think. She can make no recourse to him now, must decide things for herself and her eyes prickle at the why of it but there are no tears to cry.

He abandoned her. He left her alone after he promised to always be here with her and she hates him for it, longs to scream at him, to pull his mask off and push him against the wall and rail at him for hurting her so because _he should have known how much it would hurt_. And he abandoned this baby too just like he abandoned her and she has screamed herself hoarse already alone without him, but now the screams just echo through her brain, jammed in her throat with her tears, with her words, and she cannot outrun them, cannot hide on them, can only lie here and whimper and listen to them as if they are in this very room.

A flicker of fear twists in her heart. What is she to do? What if something goes wrong? What if something happens? How can she look after a child when even the thought of waking up without him is enough to make her break out in a cold sweat, nevermind that she’s been doing it for months already? What if she hurts the baby just by not knowing? What if-what if- _what if?_

A distant keening reaches her ears, and it takes her a moment to realise that it is coming from her own throat. She cannot have this baby. She knows it, feels it. It is wrong to bring a baby into the world where its father is dead, where its mother’s heart beats with an ache that cannot be soothed. It is wrong of her, cruel. She cannot do it, she cannot-

She must. This baby, this little bump, almost imperceptible, that she feels when she presses her hand to her stomach, the bump which is only going to grow, is Erik’s. It is of Erik’s blood, and she would be betraying him if she let anything happen to it, if she gave it away.

But she _needs_ him. She needs him so much. Every day she needs him, searches for him and he is not there, will never be there again, and she’s hollow and too-full at once, unable to escape, unable to take a breath without her lungs burning to protest her continued existence, whispering to her to _stop_ , to _just go_. If there’s going to be a baby then she’s going to need him, miss him, even more than she does now and how can she cope when it feels as if she could not _possibly_ need him more than she does now?

(How can she give life to their child without him at her side when her love was not enough to keep life in his body?)

For every flicker of longing in her heart at the thought of this baby, every flick of needing to keep it and hold it and love it, there is an answering flicker of sour bitterness, very nearly hate. The very fact of this baby inside of her is a mockery of what she could have had. If Erik had lived, there would have been babies and happiness and they would have been whole but now-now there can only ever be a gaping chasm where things don’t quite fit, where he is missing and try as she may they can never be a family, not truly, not without him. It is the Devil’s work, mocking her, laughing at her pain to give her a child that she cannot raise after ripping away her husband. She has committed sin, great sins, and that is why she is being punished by being made to bear a baby that she cannot possibly want and yet does. The Devil is finding fun at her grief, making an example of her by giving her this baby that will suffer by her own helplessness.

No. She cannot believe that. She wants to, wants to be able to denounce the child as something wrong and in another world, another life, she might be able to but she cannot believe that loving Erik constituted a sin and she cannot name an innocent baby who never asked to be conceived as the Devil’s work. And this baby, this new life nestled beneath her heart, is not a punishment but a _gift_. One last gift from Erik, made of his love, something for her to hold onto and love and banish the shadows that have haunted her these last months. This baby is a treasure, and that is how she must think of it, and she must be strong for to protect it no matter how much it feels as if she is crumbling to dust.

But she does not _want_ to be strong. She _wants_ to crumble, _wants_ to blow away alongside him and escape from this world that has always hurt her so, but she cannot because Erik would not want that and he has sent this baby to make sure that she lives, that she cannot hurt herself. So help her, but this baby needs her and she needs Erik and though she cannot have him back this baby can have her, always, and for Erik she will love him, or her, and for Erik she will protect him, and for Erik she will be better than she has been.

For Erik. For the baby, for Erik. She cannot betray him, not now, not again when she betrayed him once before in not realising her love for him sooner. This time, she will do things properly.

She nods, and takes a deep breath, and for the first time in months her lungs want to draw in breath, and squeezes his watch – warm now from her skin – tight, and vows into the silence of the room that she will be the mother to this child that Erik himself never did have. And, oh, how she is tired, the hidden wounds inside of her that he left and she thought might be healing bleeding afresh now in a scarlet haemorrhage that she cannot staunch, and all she can do is lie here, and let her eyes slip closed, and pretend that this is a world where he lives, even if only for a little while.


	8. Considerations

Darius cannot deny that he is relieved when Madame Christine joins them for breakfast. She is noticeably more composed than yesterday, though still pale as a sheet, and drinks all of her tea, apologising when she only picks at her bread that she _is not feeling too well_. He makes a mental note of it, decides to mix a broth for her for supper if she is still here.

(He hopes she is. The idea of her returning below the Opera House in such a state unsettles his heart.)

Master Nadir confided in him, late last night by the fire, that she is with child. Darius cannot feel much good about a child. Another time it would be joyous news (were Erik living, he _thinks_ it would be joyous news) but now. Now it is adding more pain on top of what she has already been through, and he cannot bear to see her suffer so.

He clamps down on the feelings, pushes them away, and offers her a smile. Her lips twitch very slightly. It is enough for now.

She retires back to the guest room after breakfast, murmuring that she wishes to think and apologising for being an inconvenience. And Darius cannot deny that he is secretly pleased when Master Nadir assures her that she is anything _but_ an inconvenience before promising that she will find him in his study if she wishes to talk.

Beneath an Opera House is no place to raise a child. For Erik it was a refuge. For Madame Christine it is a tomb. For a baby? For a baby it can only be death, sealed away from the world, and Darius can feel his gorge rising at the mere thought of it.

He brings Master Nadir lemon tea in his study, and sets it down on the desk next to him. “You cannot permit that girl to return down there,” he states, voice level though his heart is racing. “She ought to stay here.” It is not his place to speak on the matter, he knows, but he could not live with himself if he did not have his say. If it _were_ his place he would insist that she stay here where she can be looked after, where she is not surrounded by constant reminders of Erik’s death, and it is gratifying when Master Nadir nods slowly, eyes cast down upon the page.

“I know,” he murmurs, lips twisting. “I hope she can see that herself.”

The words hang unspoken between them, the question _what of the Vicomte?_ But it does not feel right to mention him now, so soon, and it feels wrong to speak of him in Madame Christine’s absence though of course he will have to be told.

“We need ginger,” Darius finds himself saying to cover the spectre of the Vicomte, “for tea. I will go to the market for some.”

Master Nadir glances at him out of the side of his eye, cocks a brow. “Ginger is good for nausea, as I re-call.” It is not a question, and Darius draws himself to his full height.

“Yes, well, it is wise to be prepared.”

A very brief smile crosses his master’s face, and Darius’ heart aches at the rarity of it these past months. “Perhaps you would get some peppermint as well, and chamomile.” The words hit his ears as a benediction, permitting him to care for her (though of course Master Nadir, if he knew the train of Darius’ thoughts, would say that he has _always_ been permitted to care about her, ever since she came into their lives all of those months ago, yet it is something of a relief to hear it however obliquely) and he nods.

“As you wish.”

* * *

The market is exceptionally crowded, people of all different stations rushing about. Darius takes his time, nudges his way through the crowd and collects the necessary supplies. Every minute he is away from the apartment is interminable, stretching on and on and though he knows there is little he can do to help either of the people he left behind his heart is agitated for to go back and check in on them. Yet, he knows that she is probably still listlessly tucked away in the guest room and his master is poring over that accursed diary, prodding through his memory and the extent of his, Darius’, assistance to _either_ of them is making tea and broth and then pouring it all out when he finds it sitting, hours later, cold and untouched.

(Madame Christine has at least not (yet) been the cause of such waste.)

Not for the first time he curses Erik his death for the mess that has been left behind. Did he know as he set about killing himself slowly with the morphine the grief that would follow in his wake? Did he enjoy the thought of inflicting more suffering? What he has done to that poor girl! To Master Nadir! How different things would be if he had lived!

In the next moment, Darius repents his cruel thoughts. Erik could not have known what would happen, could not have done anything to prevent it. He has had a great deal of time to think these past months and these are the conclusions that he has come to. _If_ Erik had survived that last attack, he could hardly have lived much longer anyway. And, if he had known that he would leave not only Madame Christine behind but a child too he would be as heartsick as Darius is, as Master Nadir. Moreso, in fact! No, there is no denying that Erik was not the man he used to be and he loved that girl dearly and if Darius could bring him back he knows that he would. And the realisation is so shocking that he feels his head spin.

The carriage comes to an abrupt stop, jolting through him as it pulls up outside the apartment. He gathers his parcels, still in something of a daze, and opens the door. Master Nadir rushes out of the apartment, putting up a hand to stop him, and leaning up to speak to the driver. Darius hardly hears him, his ears catching on the words _Rue Scribe_ and in the next moment Madame Christine steps out of the house, the same black veil she wore yesterday pulled down over her face. Master Nadir helps her into the carriage, locks the house door behind her and pulls himself in, and it is then that Darius feels his lips finally forming the words that have been twisting in his mind ever since he saw his Master step out.

“Where are we going?” he asks, the words feeling too loud in the quiet of the rocking carriage.

“The Opera House,” Master Nadir answers, fingers tapping on his knee, “to collect some of Christine’s things.” The words he leaves unsaid are the ones that stir Darius’ heart, that let a wave of relief wash through his blood.

_She has decided to stay_.


	9. Unsteady Resolve

It takes two trips to get back anything she might want. Clothes, music, some books, her knitting. Ayesha, naturally enough. Nadir cannot bring himself to hate the cat now, not when she winds herself around his legs and Christine’s, as if she has always been charitable towards both of them. Darius sniffs distastefully but makes no comment when the cat preens and jumps into Christine’s arms.

Erik’s violin she brings also. “He was going to teach me to play,” she murmurs, traces her fingers over the wood. “Papa taught me, long ago, but I was very small and then, after he…” She trails off and swallows, snapping the violin case closed. “I just want to keep it.” Nadir nods and takes the case, weighs it. It is not so very heavy.

(And how many things of Rookheeya’s did he keep, once upon a time, just because he wanted to? And of Reza’s too? Most of them lost now, of course, though he still has a couple of her necklaces, the music-man that Erik once made for Reza, though it has not worked in years. He swallows, banishes the thoughts. It is Christine that matters now. There will be time enough later to dwell on his memories.)

To the violin she adds drawings, sketches done in Erik’s hand and his notebooks, full of notes on medicine, architecture, science, his inventions. She does not bring any of the inventions themselves, simply closes the door on his laboratory, and her lips very nearly form a smile. “It doesn’t feel right to disturb them.”

Darius travels with the first load of things back to the Rue de Rivoli, and Nadir stays with Christine. She is so fragile-looking, so pale standing in the drawing room, ghosting her fingers over the organ keys, face lined and thoughtful, and yet Nadir can see more resolve in her than he has in months. There is a set to her jaw that he has never seen before, one that would have seemed so out of place even a few days ago, though her lips tremble still and eyes glisten with unshed tears as they fall on each new object.

“I think,” she breathes, gripping the prayer beads that she picked off the desk tight, “that I will go to visit him. I just-I need-” Her voice cracks, and he nods to spare her the necessity of the words.

“Go ahead. I’ll wait here.” He settles into the armchair that he so often occupied before, and has again on his visits to see her. Ayesha jumps into his lap, uncharacteristically accepting of him, and curls up. “Take your time.”

* * *

 

The words refuse to come, all gather in a ball in her throat. There is so much to say, but what _can_ she say? How can she tell him? How can she even speak it to him when it took all she had to tell Nadir?

Three months. He has been gone for _three whole months_. The sun has turned _so many_ times and she has been without him. Her fingers ache to touch him, to trace the curve of his lips, and she squeezes her own fist tight, nails embedding themselves in her palm and if she squeezes deeper she would draw blood-he would take her hand and kiss it and tell her not to be so ridiculous, to be more careful-

A sob catches in her throat unable to escape, and she breathes around it, her heart settling again.

_Breathe, Christine. Just breathe._

How many times has she visited him here, in this grave that he himself dug in the two weeks before sending her off with Raoul and her returning? More times than she wishes count, in three months, sometimes several times a day, craving to be close to him, to speak to him, feel him. And she has spoken to him, of innocuous things and her feelings both, and odd shattered memories that drifted back, but she has not spoken to him of this. How could she?

_There is a baby, Erik. A child growing inside of me made of our love and I’m so scared, and I don’t know how I can manage without you but that I have to and Nadir has been ever so kind but I_ need _you._

Even that is wrong, truth though it is. If he were here, holding her hand, it would be so much easier and…

No. No. She must not allow herself to think of him alive. If she does she’ll lose this fragile steadiness and fall apart and that would not do, not for news such as this, not to him.

_I am with child, Erik. And I’m happy that I am because it’s something of you that I can always have and you cannot truly be gone from me if there is baby with your blood._

And there is truth in that, too, grains of it, for though her heart twists at the thought of the child there is a little part of her that is happy. With a baby, she can almost be a real wife, even if she is a widow.

(The word rolls strangely, even in her mind. Ill-fitting however accurate and right it is.)

_There is to be a baby, Erik-_

_Erik, I’m going to have-_

_The doctor told me-_

_I hope it’s-_

They are wrong, all wrong. Anything she might have said, could have said, is wrong, and she bows her head, bites her lip. The sting of her teeth is enough to draw her back, to remind her that she is sitting not before her husband but before his grave, and there is news but she cannot speak the words.

She need not tell him, need never tell him. Surely where he is now he knows already. Surely he has been granted the omniscience he has always faked possessing, though there were times when she _did_ think him all-seeing. And if he is omniscient, if he knows, why does he not come to her somehow? Tell her that it is all right? Tell her that he loves her still and he’s sorry for hurting her so and he’ll never leave her side ever again and he is so proud of her and she can get through this and he is happy that there is to be a baby and-

No. No. She must not think of the dead thusly. It is blasphemous. He cannot come back now because he is at peace, and it is right for him to be at peace. After all he suffered he is entitled to his rest now, even as she wishes him beside her. She breathes deeply, lets the air fill her lungs, and opens her eyes. _Let him be_.

She will not tell him now, not yet. The words need to fit themselves to what she wants to say. (What _does_ she want to say? Thank him for the gift of this life she carries? Is it a gift? Maybe, probably. (Yes it is, of course it is, and if he were alive she would be overjoyed.) Curse him for taking himself away when she needs him now more than ever? Curse him for giving her this reminder of him so that she can never forget what they had, will always feel that pain? What? What are the words?) The time will _surely_ come when she can speak of it to him, but perhaps it is wise that that time is not now.

She folds her fingers around her rosary beads, and sighs. The prayer is not in its right place, but nothing else is anymore so let it come to her as it wishes. Erik would not much care, anyway.

_Salve, Regina, Mater misericordiæ…_

* * *

 

Later, Darius prepares broth as Christine sorts through the things she has brought to the Rue de Rivoli. The dresses she hangs in the wardrobe, folds her undergarments and nightdresses into a drawer. The violin she sets beside it, and Ayesha’s bed in the corner. She builds a stack of books beside the bed, slips each of Erik’s notebooks into the drawers of the bedside locker. She does not open them, cannot bear to see his handwriting, not yet, and yet it is a comfort to have them here, would feel infinitely wrong to leave them behind. Into the chest of drawers she places her favourite folios of his compositions – the others she left behind, where he chose to set them in his own library – and his drawings. For a long time, she weighs his silver compass in her hand. He told her the story of how he acquired it, of the old Italian gentleman, Giovanni, and though she never saw him use it she knows it was important to him, and she slips it into the violin case, beside his bow.

_Perhaps the child will be an architect_.

It is an incongruous thought, and her heart aches though this time there are no tears.  This is not the time for such thoughts, not now when it feels that every step, every breath, will send her toppling. Whether or not the baby will want to be an architect has no place when _all she wants_ is to make it to the end of the hour, of the day, of the week, and even the very thought of what the baby might want to be when it grows up makes her feel as if her own mask is crumbling, ready to reveal her for the mess that she is.

And she has been so good today, so steady after deciding to stay here, with Nadir and Darius. She cannot afford to let it slip again, not so soon. She needs to hold herself together just long enough to get her to tonight, to get her to sleep.

_Just let me have peace_ , she prays, _just peace_.

The silver compass is cold beneath her fingertips and she shudders, the ice of it threading through her blood. _Just get me through supper_ , she pleads, _no trembling, no tears. Just get me through supper._ And every word feels as if she is betraying Erik, because she should cry for him, should hurt for him, but she is suddenly so tired and all she wants is to curl up in the bed that is and is not hers and cradle every memory of him close but she cannot because she needs to put her things away and she promised herself she would be strong and if she cannot even make it through the day then how can she hope to raise his child?

She gasps, and swallows, and withdraws her fingers. The compass glints up at her, mocking her, daring her to fall apart, but she closes her eyes and closes the lid of the case without looking.

For a moment, the barest, briefest moment, there are cool fingertips on the back of her hand. She dares not move, dares hardly to breathe, and from that faint touch warmth flows back into her, banishing the cold that has lived in her bones for months.

_You have done well, my dear._

The words echo through her brain, and her eyes snap open but there is nobody here, nobody behind her as she grabs with her hand and she is utterly alone when she turns around, the curtains as still as they have always been, and Ayesha asleep in her basket.

Her heart cracks, throat aching, and though there is a lump in her chest that makes it so hard to breathe she does not cry, keeps the tears at bay. She did not truly expect to find him anyway.

(She did, and the lie of denial is enough that her knees buckle, a whimper dying in her throat.)


	10. Masks and Hidden Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long it's been since I updated this. My MA has taken up a lot of time lately, and now that I am on holidays for six weeks, it should not be long before there is another update.

They settle into a rhythm easily enough. Christine takes her meals with Darius and Nadir, and offers to help with some of the cleaning but Darius refuses and insists _it would be better if you rest_. So she talks to Nadir, and reads (or tries to, when her thoughts wish to focus), and knits when her fingers need to feel busy, and writes in her diary and prays the Rosary so that she does not need to think about Erik or of the baby, and it is not _better_ but it is _easier_.

She considers going to visit him, to visit his grave and sit there a while as she has these past months, but every time the thought crosses her mind a shiver runs down her spine and she cannot, and she cannot bear to face it, to face _him_. How can she go to his grave, and pretend that everything is all right or at least normal, when she cannot even tell him that there is to be a child?

She has not written in her diary since his death. That diary, a testament to their time together when he kidnapped her, and again when she married him, full of memories of one sort or another – how could she ruin it by writing of his being gone? What could she write of, the pain she can barely name? The loneliness? The mornings she woke thinking him living only to remember over and over and over again? No. She could not write any of that. It would defile the record of their time together to end it in such a way.

But now. Now it is different. Now there is a child, there will be. And she cannot explain it but the first night after moving onto the Rue de Rivoli she went to her room and pulled her diary from the bag where she stashed it, and began to write. And it was not easier, but it did feel a little better, a little more normal.

(To think that anything might ever begin to feel normal again—Three months ago she would have declared herself delusional, but the world has shifted even as she struggles to catch up with it.)

Two nights later, there is something about seeing the words in her neat script that at once feels like a punch in the gut and a bald statement of fact. _Erik is gone_. And then, elsewhere, _I am with child_. It makes it more real and less, the truth of it weighing heavy around her neck, but as if it is happening to someone else, another Christine in another time, in another world, as if Erik will come walking into this strange room and sit on the edge of this bed, and take her hand.

A wave of nausea washes over her, and she pushes the diary away, sips the ginger tea Darius insisted she bring with her. It cuts her throat as she swallows, stings it, but settles the roiling in her stomach. She lies down, and sighs, reaching for her Rosary beads again to curl around her fingers. She should kneel to pray, she knows, but if she kneels her knees might buckle and fail her, and injure the baby, and she—No. it is better that she lie down.

Besides, she already has enough sins. What is one more to add to the list?

It is almost funny, and a laugh bubbles in her throat but she swallows it down because if she starts laughing now she might never be able to stop and then she would be weeping and that cannot be good for the baby either. The baby. Her hand slips down to her belly, to the slight bump betraying its existence and that she should have noticed so much sooner, and presses it gently. Does the baby, this tiny little baby growing inside of her, know that its father is dead? Has it sensed her grief and her pain and learned it? (Has her grief hurt it? No. _No_.) Does it know that its very conception was a sin hidden beneath an opera house? There was no priest at the wedding, after all. And no matter how wonderful Nadir is, how kind and gentle, she doubts if he is invested with divine authority. Is that why Erik died? Was his death a retribution for their sin? Might he have lived if there was no child—if they had never—?

She shakes her head as if it will shake the thoughts away. He was ill before, was ill as long as she knew him, and any sin that they committed had nothing to do with his death. It was the ordinary course of affairs, to be expected after the strain on his heart. To be expected.

She opens her eyes, still stubbornly dry in spite of the aching inside of her, and swallows, and rolls onto her back. She must not think such thoughts – about sin, about death. There are her prayers, and her prayers will keep the thoughts away, keep the memories at bay, and she nods, and curls her fingers around the beads, and gives herself over to Latin.

* * *

 

She is in her room the next day with Ayesha, reading to not think with one hand resting on the cat’s back, when a knock comes to the door, makes her jump. Either Darius or Nadir, of course, and she lays the book down, its cover smooth beneath her fingers. “Come in,” she says softly, and the door opens and Nadir slips in, his mouth tight, and eases the door softly closed behind him.

“The Vicomte is here, Christine,” he says, voice quiet, “looking for you. Darius has not told him yet that you are here, wishing to give you a chance to send him away should you, should you want to. Do you want to speak to him?”

Raoul. Her heart twists at the very thought of him. Raoul. She has not considered him in days, since his last visit to her beneath the Garnier when she told him that she was quite tired and wished to be alone, and though he looked as if he would dearly love to say something he kept his tongue and acquiesced and left. She should speak to him, in one sense. He would worry for her, for her health, for her sanity, and when he has come looking for her here then he must surely know that she is not down there anymore.

But she does not _wish_ to see him, does not _wish_ to see the pitying sadness in his eyes, does not _wish_ to see that pitying sadness deepen when he hears of the baby. She wishes to stay here, with her book and Ayesha, and hide.

(She should not hide, she knows that. She has no reason to hide.)

“What do you think I should do?” It is all she can think to do, to ask Nadir for guidance. He will help her, as he has already, and whatever he suggests she will follow.

“I think you should see him,” he says, his voice soft and eyes sad. “He will worry otherwise. And I think—I think he will have to know sometime, Christine.” The look in his eyes as he speaks the words leaves no doubt in her mind as to what Raoul needs to know. “It is your choice whether to tell him now or not, absolutely your choice, but I think, I think sooner is better than later.”

She feels the weight of his words, lets them sink in. Of course Raoul will need to know, _of course_ he will. But how can she bring herself to tell him, when she cannot even tell Erik? Is it not betraying her husband to tell Raoul before him? Or maybe, maybe – and it is this thought that gives her the strength to resolve a decision – maybe, if she tells Raoul first, she will be able to find the words to tell Erik.

She finds herself nodding before she can change her mind. “All right,” she murmurs, “I will see him and—and I will tell him.”

A faint smile twitches at the corners of Nadir’s lips before fading away again, and he nods. “All right. I’ll have Darius prepare some tea. Take your time.” He opens the door, and slips back out before she has time to thank him, and closes the door.

Gently she sets the book down, and slips off the bed, stands, every movement careful so as not to jar the baby. It is almost funny to think that for months she was not careful at all, unaware of the child’s existence and yet no harm befell it, and now that she does know she takes every ounce of care that she possibly can, and it has only been a few days. She might almost laugh.

Ayesha growls at her moving, and curls into a tighter ball. “I will be back soon, little lady,” she promises, smoothes the creases from her dress, and the echo of Erik’s words in her own voice makes her heart twist for the barest moment before fading away, replaced by a touch of nausea at the thought of facing Raoul. “I promise.” And she braces herself, and walks to the door, taking a breath to soothe the twisting in her stomach. _It is necessary_ , she tells herself, as if from those words alone she will draw courage. _It is necessary_. With the echo of the phrase in her mind, she opens the door, and steps into the hallway.


	11. Tea, News, and a Proposal

Nadir cannot say that he is surprised that the Vicomte de Chagny is their caller. In truth, he has been expecting it ever since Christine decided to stay. Sooner or later, the boy was bound to look for her and find her missing from beneath the Garnier, and come to see if they knew where to find her. Yet, though he is not surprised he cannot help wishing that it had taken the Vicomte a little longer before deciding to come searching for her. For all that he encouraged Christine to speak to the young man, for both of their sake’s, Nadir knows that, given how delicate she has been the last few days (the last five months), facing her former lover now might upset her.

He has no doubt that the Vicomte cares for her, has good intentions, but if he thought it would do any good he would send him away again, at least for a few days, to let Christine get to grips with the fact of the baby. She has so much on her mind, so much that she needs to deal with, that it hardly seems fair to confront her with him. On the other hand, Nadir knows that it is fairer to give _her_ the choice in what to tell the boy. It is her decision to make, how much he should know, and not his.

_It is better for her to meet him_ , he reminds himself. _He will have to know, and it will not do her any good to hide. It is best to meet him._

Christine insists that he stay when she’s talking to the Vicomte, and Nadir – seeing the painful worry in her eyes – does not have it in him to object. He settles on the couch beside her, once the boy settles back into his armchair, and wraps his hands around a warm cup of tea courtesy of Darius. Darius slips from the room, not before shooting Nadir a look that suggests he will position himself in the best listening position he can find. A strange wave of giddy laughter washes over Nadir, but he suppresses it with a sip of the hot tea. Trust Darius to spy on a conversation like this.

(It is probably best. He, too, cares deeply for dear Christine, and Nadir finds himself oddly grateful for that. And with Darius listening now, Nadir is spared the trouble of having to tell him later all that they spoke of.)

The Vicomte is pale, strangely so, but with Christine sitting across from him a little more colour comes into his pinched face, his blond hair hanging dishevelled over his forehead. “I was down there yesterday,” he says, after the perfunctory pleasantries have been exchanged, “and I couldn't find you. I thought you might have gone out, but when you weren't down there today—” he swallows, his lips twisting and fingers white around his tea cup. “When you weren't down there today, I was worried so I came here.”

Out of the side of his eye Nadir can see Christine sip her tea, her face unreadable. “You needn't have worried. As you can see I am well.”

The Vicomte nods, and sits a little deeper into his chair. “It’s a relief. I—Well, to say I was worried— I’m glad you are well.” He looks down, swallows, and looks back at her, hardly even seeming aware of Nadir’s own presence in the room. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but why? Why did you decide to leave?” The words hang in the air, and Christine pales, her cup trembling in her hand, and the string of tension that has been inside of Nadir for so long tightens. He reaches over, and takes her cup gently, sets it down on the table, and she smiles faintly at him, brushing her hand across her eyes, and if he could he would reach over and hug her and assure her that she does not have to tell the Vicomte anything. But it is not his place, and he restrains the urge, balls his hand into a fist on his lap to contain himself.

In a moment, Christine has composed herself again, her hands folded tightly together. “I left because—because—” she swallows, and nods, resolve blazing in her eyes. “I’ve been to the doctor, Raoul, and I have some news,” she says softly, looking back down into her lap. “Some very important news, and I’m not sure if you'll like it, but you do need to know.” Nadir sets down his own cup now, a wave of nausea washing over him as the colour drains from the Vicomte’s face once more. He takes a deep breath, smooths a hand over the creases in his trousers, and sits a little straighter, fighting the pounding of his heart.

“Is—Is it serious?” The boy’s voice trembles, and Nadir’s heart aches for him, too, and the thought crosses his mind, only for a moment, that this baby, this poor, dear baby that has disturbed Christine so, could so easily in another world be the Vicomte’s, and would that be better, or worse? He cannot say, and he pushes the thoughts away. The baby is Erik’s, and that is that, and it is a tarnish on his memory to think of the possibility of how things might have been otherwise.

Christine sighs. “You could say it is very serious.” Well of course it’s serious! She’s a widow expecting a child, how could that be anything _other than_ serious? The very thought is almost laughable and it takes all that Nadir has to school his face to impassivity, even as the Vicomte looks as if he’s going to faint.

“What did he say? How long did he say?”

“He thinks about four months or so.”

The Vicomte mouths it, his eyes wide. _Four months_. “You can't—I didn't think you were that ill. I thought—I thought it was just grief, I—You can't be dying, Christine! Not so soon!”

Christine pales now too, and stares at him, and that giddy bubble of laughter rises inside of Nadir again, and he swallows it down as she says, “Dying? I’m not dying. Who said anything about dying?”

“But you said—”

“I went to the doctor, Raoul, but I’m not ill. I’m—I’m,” and she swallows, straightens and purses her lips a moment, draws a breath before, “I’m with child.”

And as simple as that, it’s said, and no matter how many times Nadir hears those words, no matter how prepared he is for them, it does not get any easier. The Vicomte gapes at her, and she holds her head high, and Nadir can't help the flutter of pride in his chest. It is difficult for her, he knows, to think about it. Difficult for her to speak of it, but yet here she sits, a defiant look in her eyes that he saw in Erik’s altogether too many times, and he thinks that she might have learned something from him more than music.

“With child.” The Vicomte’s voice is hoarse. “Did Erik—Did he kno—”

She shakes her head before he can finish. “Of course not. I didn't know until a few days ago.”

The Vicomte nods, and sips his tea and nods again. “I see. Well then. That changes matters, doesn't it?” It is not a question that needs an answer, and Christine does not give it one. Nadir twines his fingers with his watch chain, squeezes it, braces himself for whatever it is the boy might say next. “I suppose there’s only one thing for it,” the Vicomte continues, raising his eyes to meet hers at last. “I had intended to wait longer, to give you more time, at least another year but now—now…” He swallows, flexes his fingers. “It’s not quite the way I imagined I might ask, but, Christine, will you marry me?”

Nadir’s heart stalls at the very words. Whatever he expected the Vicomte to say, it was not _that,_ and he draws a shallow breath, swallows it. Christine hardly seems to breathe beside him, her eyes riveted on the boy’s face, fingers wrapped so tightly together in her lap that her knuckles are white. Nadir itches to reach over, to take her hand and squeeze it, but it takes all the energy he has to try to gather his thoughts. Christine marry the Vicomte? It is not so strange a thought, after all they were engaged for a time. But Christine marry the Vicomte _while carrying Erik’s child_? That’s the part that twists his brain into knots. Erik, the boy’s rival for her affections, the _man who tried to kill him_ , and she is expecting his baby, and he would marry her? It is very nearly incomprehensible, and if the Vicomte were not always so kind and protective towards Christine, it surely would be!

“I— _Raoul_.” Christine’s voice draws Nadir back to the present, back to her sitting beside him, her face as pale as those first few days after Erik’s death, and the Vicomte sitting across from them, leaning forward and eager.

“Can't you see it’s perfect!” The boy’s voice is higher than it’s been throughout this whole visit. “I’ll marry you, I’ll raise the baby as my own. You won't be alone, and the baby will have a father! And you know,” his voice drops again, eyes flicking down to the ring on her finger, Erik’s ring, before rising to meet hers, “you know I’ve always loved you. That hasn’t changed, not with Erik, and not now.”

“ _Raoul_.” A tear trickles down Christine’s cheek, and she makes no effort to wipe it away. For a moment, Nadir thinks she’s going to nod her head, and agree to marry him, if only for the sake of the baby, but in the next moment she’s shaking her head instead. “I can't.” Her voice is barely a whisper.

The Vicomte frowns, shakes his head. “Why not? It makes sense for us both!”

“Because I could not ask you to raise someone else’s baby! And…and it would be betraying,” her voice cracks, the tears rolling faster down her cheeks, “Erik’s memory, to re-marry so soon, and I can’t do that Raoul, I can’t! I love you, I do, but not in the way you want me to, and I can't pretend that I do. I’m sorry.” She stands and crosses the room, disappears through the door. Her shoes clack on the wooden floor as she walks back to her room, and as soon as the muffled sound of her door banging shut reaches them, the Vicomte puts his head in his hands.

“I’ve ruined it,” he whispers, his voice thick with tears and muffled by his palms. “I didn't mean to upset her. I’ve ruined it.”

Nadir aches to follow Christine, to soothe her and comfort her, but he must see to the Vicomte first, and so he takes a breath, leans across to the boy and takes his hand, and gently draws it away from his face. “I know,” he murmurs, “I know.” What can he say? What can he possibly say, other than that he thinks the boy made a mistake in asking her so soon, should have held off longer to give her time to come to terms with the news? But he can’t say that. That would only make things worse, however bad they are now. Nadir sighs, and says the first thing that comes to mind. “But I think—I think what she needs is for you to be her friend right now. Not her lover, not her fiancée, just her friend.” He swallows and nods to himself. “You just rushed a bit, that’s all. Just be her friend.”

The Vicomte raises his head, and nods, tears still shining in his eyes. “Do you think it will help?”

Nadir nods. “I do.” Gently, he sets down the boy’s hand, pats it kindly. “Now. You sit here a little while. I’ll have Darius make you some fresh tea, and you drink it and arrange your thoughts. I’ll go and talk to Christine.” And without waiting for an answer, he stands, crosses the room, and leaves, closing the door softly behind him, and feels, all of a sudden, so very, very old.


	12. One Moment More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter is named after the Mindy Smith song of the same title.

He knocks gently on Christine’s door, and hears her stir inside. “Come in, Nadir.” Her voice is groggy, and he opens the door, steps into the dim room, and closes it softly behind him. Through the low light filtering through the pulled curtains he can see Christine, curled in a ball on the bed, Ayesha sprawled at her head. He crosses the room, slowly, and settles on the bed beside her, reaching out and taking Erik’s watch off the bedside locker, weighing it in his hand.

They stay there like that in silence for several minutes, her lying and him sitting, both lost in their own thoughts, tears still slipping slowly down Christine’s cheeks, and Nadir can only feel numb. How have they come here, to sitting like this in this room, both wrecks of themselves? A year ago, he hardly knew her name, barely recognised her as a girl in the chorus, and now…Now she is the widow of his best friend, and expecting a baby to boot, and after rejecting a marriage proposal! It sounds like something out of an opera, and if it were not happening to them, it might almost be funny.

He can’t just sit here in silence, though. He needs to say something.

“How are you?” It is the first thing that comes to mind, and the words are out almost before he realises it, and only then it strikes him as the completely wrong thing to say, when she is so very clearly not all right. He wishes he could take them back, could say something with a bit more meaning, but before he can even begin to frame something, she laughs a hard, dry laugh. Nadir’s heart twists at the sound of something so unnatural from her.

“How do you think?” Her voice is rough from weeping, and his own eyes prickle with old tears. How often did he ask Erik how he was only to get that same answer? _How do you think, Nadir?_ Too many times, many of them in those last months, when Erik was fighting his illness, and the memories tighten in Nadir’s throat. He would visit, to play chess, and if Erik was particularly tired Christine would insist that he stay in bed, and Nadir would sit on the edge beside him, like he is sitting now, reading the newspaper or talking. So many times, so many evenings, and always that whispering question in his mind of _how much longer?_

Well, he knows how much longer now.

(He wishes he didn’t.)

Nadir takes a breath, and the memory fades, and he is not sitting in the bedroom five stories beneath the Garnier with Erik frail beside him, but in his own house, very much above ground, and Christine looking up at him with bloodshot eyes and tear-stained cheeks. “Perhaps the question was ill-advised,” he murmurs, and musters a smile for her sake. She has enough on her mind without having to think about how often his own mind drifts back, even when he is not writing his diary.

A brief chuckle escapes her lips and she gasps, surprised. “Perhaps it was.”

Nadir sighs, and strokes his fingers over the watch. When he took it off Erik’s waistcoat that night, he never imagined that she might be with child, never suspected it. If he had he would have done it just the same, with the idea that she might someday want to give it to the baby, something of its father’s to carry with it. The thought crosses his mind that if he had died when Rookheeya was expecting Reza, all of those long decades ago, he would have wanted Rookheeya to do the same, would have wanted his boy to have something of his, and a bolt of pain shoots through his heart to think that it might ever have happened that way, that his wonderful, beautiful Rookheeya could have been left alone at such a time. And if it _had_ been him, _if_ , he would have wanted her to find peace with someone else, would not have wanted her to end up the way he has.

But it did not happen that way. She died instead, after bringing their sweet, poor little boy into the world, and she would have wanted him to take another wife, would have almost expected it of him to do so, and he did not. He _could_ not, could never look at a woman or feel for one the way he felt for her. She was the only woman he could ever love, and he has always known that, and he could never even think of finding someone else, not even to give Reza a mother, would always have felt that he was betraying her. And the old wound aches in his chest, his throat tight, and he nods, closes his fingers around the watch.

He knows what he has to say, what he _needs_ to say, but the words…It is the words that are difficult.

“Erik,” his voice is rough and he can feel her eyes boring into his neck, hears her breath catch, “Erik would want you to marry the Vicomte. I think he might have approved of him over any other man, to be there for you after hi—to be there for you now.  He would want you to be looked after, to…” He wants to say, _to find peace_ , but what good would words like that be for her now, so soon? None at all, might only hurt her more, and he lets them die on his tongue, and it’s so hard to keep talking with her looking at him with those red-rimmed eyes, but he has to, no matter how useless any words are now. There are things that need to be said. He swallows, takes a breath, his heart fluttering uncomfortably. “But I think, he might have understood too, if you did not re-marry. And I…after Rookheeya, after…I have never been able to…to feel that way about anyone else.” His eyes prickle with tears. She has been dead for forty years, and most days he can think of her and the pain has faded to almost nothing compared to what it was, so why is it so difficult to speak of her now? “So I understand how…how…” He closes his eyes to hide the tears, and takes a shaking breath, his heart pounding hard against his chest. How can it still feel so raw, after all of these years? How? Did Erik manage to rip the scabs off when he died? Leave him bleeding inside once again? Or is it only that he can see so much of himself in Christine, and cannot bear to think of her going through the same pain he did? He swallows, and feels the tears slip through from beneath his closed eyelids. “The boy,” he whispers, and his voice is hoarser now, almost unrecognisable, “the boy means well. His heart is in the right place and…and he cares for you. He was just a little impetuous, that’s all. He should have thought a little deeper before asking you. Do not…do not push him away for it.”

“Nadir.” Her voice is low, oddly tight, and he cannot bear to look at her, to see that reflection of himself. “Nadir, I understand. I do.” Her voice cracks. “I just want to be friends with him, just friends, and I… but he wants more and…” Her breaths are harsh and hoarse, as shaky as his own.

 _Time to be strong, Nadir,_ a faint voice whispers in his mind, _time to be strong. Staunch your wounds later. She needs you now._ And he nods, and opens his eyes, and turns to her, takes her in his arms. Her face is wet against his shoulder and his cheeks are wet, and there is nothing he can say that can take her pain away, nothing he can do except hold her, and let her cry and he feels so helpless, so useless. What use is it, to have been through this before from her perspective and be unable to help her now? Oh, what he would not do to take her suffering away, to give her Erik back for one moment, one day, so she can hold him, and talk to him, and swear to him how much she loves him. And how often has he wished to just feel Rookheeya’s cheek against his once more? To hold her and stop time and never let her go? But he can't even help himself, and how can he ever hope to help Christine? And what he would not give to see Erik one last time, and promise him that he was the dearest, best friend he ever had, that he was never the monster that he thought himself. He should have been there for him, should have been there so many times, and he’s failed him too just as he’s slowly failing Christine now. Oh, so many things he would tell him, but the words all clog in his throat. And he _should_ have told him, should have told him so many times, and he very nearly did when Erik lay half-dead of poison, but he was a young fool back then, and an old fool now, and has always been just a fool who waits too long to get the words out, and if he closes his eyes he can see Erik’s still, slack face, and Rookheeya’s, and Reza’s and the pain tears through him as sharp as a knife, and he jerks, gasps against it, and feels Christine's arms tighten around him.

A long time they stay like that, just holding each other until the tears subside, and after, neither of them speaking, lost in their own thoughts. And Nadir isn't thinking, not really, his brain too empty, body too tired. If he could, he would lie down and sleep, and not wake until the world felt right again, but such things are impossible, and the world is unbalanced, but he needs to find his footing, for himself, and for Darius, and for Christine too. Christine needs him to be strong, to be a friend to her, and that he can do, has done but must still do. And it must start here, start now.

He nods, and swallows, and gently loosens his embrace around her, pulls back. She looks at him with tear-stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes, and he cannot imagine that he looks much different, but he musters a faint smile for her. “Do you imagine,” he asks, his voice soft, “do you imagine that the Vicomte is still sitting in the parlour, and Darius forcing tea on him?” He says it for something to say, so as not to fall back on the pain, but the image is a ridiculous one, and there is the very slightest twitch of her lips that fades in an instant, as if her lips have forgotten how to smile properly. And that voice in his mind whispers, _you are not so very different_.

“I would not be surprised if he were.” Her voice is faint too, and he nods, releases her entirely and presses Erik's pocket watch into her hand.

“Well then,” and he slips off the bed, takes a breath and stands straighter, “I think we ought to return to our guest.”


	13. Peace

Try as she may but she cannot sleep. Her brain refuses to settle, churning over the events of the day. Raoul visiting. Raoul proposing marriage. Nadir coming to her as she wept. The pain in Nadir’s own eyes as he spoke of his wife. And Erik. Always Erik, there haunting her thoughts. If she closes her eyes for a moment she can see him, his hazel eyes burning golden into hers. One eye was always slightly more golden than the other. It disturbed her, when she first knew him, as if the colour itself wasn't disturbing enough. Will her baby inherit those strange eyes? A terrible, traitorous part of her hopes not.

She is not certain that she could bear seeing them in someone else’s face.

Her left arm protests dully, reminding her that she has been lying on it for too long. Slowly she rolls onto her back, the bed creaking slightly, and as the blood flows back into her arm it prickles painfully, as if she is being pricked over and over with needles. She flexes her fingers, as she saw Erik do so many times after injecting his morphine, and the sensation only gets worse. The months’ old question that she always meant to ask him and never did comes back to her. _Did you ever get used to the pinch of the needle sliding into your vein? Or is it always an irritation?_ Sometimes he would get a pained look in his eyes he slid the needle into his arm, but was it actual pain? Or was it only from needing the drug so?

(Sometimes, she thinks, she did not really know her husband very well at all.)

Even as the prickling fades away out of her arm, Christine cannot get comfortable lying on her back. It feels as if it might hurt the baby to lie too long like that, stretch her womb too thin for him. Why does she always think of the baby as a _him_? It feels right to do so, better than thinking of him as an _it_ , but is there something more there, something telling her? Or it only that a small part of her _hopes_ for a son?

She knows she should be happy to have any baby, any healthy baby, but there is something about the idea of having a son, a little boy, that is especially soothing.

She rolls onto her right arm, and hopes that her constant moving tonight does not disturb him. Perhaps he is sleeping in there, tucked inside of her, and is blissfully unaware of how she cannot settle. What she would not give, right now, to be blissfully asleep.

If she sleeps she’ll dream of him, dream of Erik as he was near the end, frail and tired though the shadow of his old strength lingered in how he stood, and not how he had been before, as the man she fell in love with. And she cannot dream of that, not tonight. Not after everything.

It is either dream of Erik, or dream of Raoul. His earnest, kind gaze, and his voice asking her softly to marry him. How could she marry him now? The very idea is heretical. One husband hardly buried, and another man lining up to take his place.

Sometimes, sometimes it is all too easy to forget that it is all of three months since Erik stopped breathing. Sometimes it feels as if he is still lying in her arms, his head against her chest, and the ghost-sensation is enough to make her heart pound. She can feel his skin chilled beneath her fingertips, his forehead smooth beneath her lips, his lips cold and still and—

No. She should not think over those things. It is best to let those memories die, however hard they try to linger on. Even thinking of Raoul is safer territory than that, and if her choice tonight is to dream of Erik’s death, or to dream of Raoul asking to marry her, then she knows which she would prefer to dream of.

_He came to me six weeks after you were married_.

Raoul’s words echo through her brain, and she sighs, willing her eyes not to sting though they disobey her anyway.

_He sent word to expect him, I suppose so that his arrival would not catch me off guard_.

The very idea of Erik going to visit Raoul is absurd, but she cannot help the slight smile that curves her lips even as her throat tightens painfully.

_I did not think it was him, at first, though of course he had his mask_.

Six weeks after they married Erik was hardly recovered from an attack. He left one evening saying he had business to attend to, and she pleaded with him not to go, or to at least allow Nadir to accompany him, but he said it was impossible, that he must go alone. And he never said where he went that night, and she presumed it was to see his man Jules, and then afterwards she presumed it was in order to arrange the mourning dresses he bought for her.

But now—Now she knows where he was that night, and she wishes she could go back and hug him, and tell him that he need not put such strain on himself.

She should have hugged him more, should have held him more.

_He asked for me to look after you after his…well. Somebody had to be there for you, and he said he trusted me to love you more than any other man. And all I could ask was, did he know something that I didn't? He said a man of his years could not truly expect to have a long life left, and he just wished to have things in order._

She was dozing on the couch when Erik returned that night, and he gently woke her and helped her to bed. All she could truly remember, after, was his arms warm around her as he held her close, and whispered, _you will be looked after, always. I promise you._

She opens her eyes, now, to the darkness of the room, her cheeks damp and cold from tears. But for all of the heaviness in her heart, the very heaviness that makes it feel that her lungs will never fully expand again, she cannot weep tonight. She cried enough with Nadir today to leave a yawning desert inside of her, and where there should be pain there is only hollowness.

_Let me be your friend, Christine. Nothing more. Just your friend. And I’ll help you, and the baby, whatever way you want me to. Just let me be here for you._

The words are soft, echoing in her ear, and she nods now the way she did hours ago, listening to them.

_Thank you, Raoul._ And then, _let’s start again._

He smiled at her, and for a moment, one fleeting moment as he held his hand out to her, she almost thought she might learn to love him again. She felt her own lips twitch in reply as she wrapped her fingers around his, and nodded.

And she thinks that Erik might almost be satisfied with that.


	14. Moments in Months

Raoul keeps her in flowers. He makes it his business, brings them every day that he visits. Tulips, lilies, carnations, mixed bouquets with sprigs of lavender. But he never brings her roses. It is as if he knows that they are off limits.

Erik used to always bring her roses. Red roses and white roses and tea roses. Almost every excursion outside resulted in a bouquet brought back to her. Once he even had a very beautiful black rose in the middle of the white roses. She that bouquet and pressed each flower, and they are in a book that she brought with her from their home.

She does not think she could bear Raoul to bring her roses. It is a relief that he never does.

* * *

 

A handful of days after Christine told him about the baby, Raoul came to her suggesting that she get a maid, to help her out. (It was a suggestion that came via him from his sister, a woman who has had several children.) Not only did he suggest she get a maid, he also suggested a very particular maid of his sister’s, wishing to return to Paris to be closer to the remnants of her family. Christine was hesitant, at first, to accept, fearing that it might be encroaching too much on Nadir’s hospitality, but the moment Nadir heard the idea he readily agreed.

“After all,” he said, with a soft, sad smile, “there is only so much help that Darius and I can be.”

And so it was decided, and Adelaide moved in a handful of days later. She is an older woman, Adelaide, one that has her own grown-up children, and who helped Raoul’s sister through her pregnancies, and though it is something of a step down for her in station to be with Christine, she does not seem to mind.

Christine takes to her right away.

So, for that matter, does Darius. And that is the greater surprise by far. In the spite of the ache in her heart, it makes Christine smile to see Darius smile at Adelaide, and between them everything in the little house on the Rue de Rivoli runs smooth. She moves into the little room beside Christine’s, and Nadir chuckles to himself that at least he acquired a house when he came to Paris, and not merely a small apartment.

* * *

 

Two weeks later, La Sorelli visits, and it is a surprise that catches them all off guard. Christine is sewing, working on the baby’s layette under the guidance of Adelaide, when Darius announces their guest, and Christine barely has time to set her sewing down before the lead ballerina walks in, as tall and beautiful as ever, though her eyes are sad.

“Phili—the Comte told me your news,” she says softly, taking Christine’s hand and squeezing it. “I—I know we were never friends, but I want you to know that I’ll help you in any way I can.”

They talk a long time over tea, soft words that soothe the aching in Christine’s heart. She has not kept up with any of her acquaintances at the Opera, not the Girys, not Sorelli, none of the chorus girls. And the Girys have gone on to Italy, and nobody talks of Christine now, but there is a comfort in knowing that she is in Sorelli’s thoughts, and when the ballerina leaves to get ready for the night’s performance, it is with the promise of another visit, and a warm feeling of friendship.

Her words twist in Christine’s head that night, echoing back to her. _I’ll help you in any way I can…my mother was expecting me when—when my father died…I understand._ And the flash of her soft smile, that Christine only ever saw once or twice at rehearsals.

She sleeps without dreams that night, and it is peaceful.

* * *

 

She is lying in bed, halfway between the worlds of waking and sleeping, when she feels it. A slight fluttering, deep inside of her belly, as if of something moving. Her breath catches in her throat. She has dreamt it, surely. Nothing more than that, but then the movement comes again, ever so slight but there. Definitely, undeniably there. And through the mist of her tired mind, the realisation dawns on her. Quickening. The baby. It is her baby that she feels, fluttering deep inside of her. Her tiny baby, moving and alive, cocooned beneath her heart where nothing can harm it. Her baby. Tears prickle her eyes, and she presses her hand into her belly, willing the little, precious thing to move again, hardly daring to breathe in case it frightens him. And the movement comes, the tiny little flutter, and she cannot help the whimper that slips from her throat.

* * *

 

There are whispers that Raoul is the father of her child. Even in her sanctuary on the Rue de Rivoli she knows that, has seen a suggestion of it in the gossip columns of _L’Epoque,_ the implication that Erik was only ever fabricated. She tears the page from the newspaper and burns it, those awful words twisting in her mind. What do those people know of Erik? Of what he went through? Of what _she_ has suffered in these long, terrible months without him? Nothing, that’s what. Not a single, solitary thing.

Raoul hugs her, and tells her to ignore them, that what counts is what they themselves know, but she cannot listen to him now. And Sorelli assures her that she believes her when she says how things are, and so does Adelaide, both of whom never knew Erik, only what she has said. And Nadir holds her as she cries, and promises her that they are fools, those people in the outside world who have nothing better to do than whisper and theorise. And his own voice is hoarse with tears, and she knows that the newspaper has stung him too.

It is a strange, incongruous thought that comes to her afterwards as she watches the newspaper curl in the fire. _If I had accepted his proposal, they would all believe it, and Erik would cease to matter._ Odd relief flickers in her heart that she _did_ reject Raoul, and she knows that bad as it is for them to whisper now, she could never bear it if Erik’s child was born into the name _de Chagny_.

* * *

 

_His body is warm, pressed along her back. Warm, and safe, and his hand is gentle pressed to her belly. He does not speak. There is no need for words here tonight, and he nuzzles into her hair, inhales softly. Her eyes slip closed, and she sighs, and the baby flutters. And tonight their family is whole._

Christine wakes with tears wet on her cheeks.

* * *

 

She has always liked to sew, a little bit, to keep her fingers busy. After Mamma Valerius died it was her pastime when she struggled to find her voice again, and now that Erik is gone it is strangely fitting that she spend so much of her time sewing.

When she sews she does not need to think, and it is easier that way, to not have to remember, only to work. The needle in, the needle out, and in, and out, and in, and out. Over and over and over again, the same motion repeated. She cannot sing, but she _can_ sew, and her baby will have a perfect layette when he is born. She will see to that.

* * *

 

Sometimes her mind still refuses to accept the fact that he has been gone for four and a half months. She stands, wrapped in his heavy cloak which is so much more soothing than her own. Nadir is standing a little away, giving her time as is their tradition now when she visits, and there is so much she wants to say to Erik, so much she wants him to know, about her and the baby and how things have been, but the words stay tight in her throat, and all she can do is lay the bundle of flowers down on the earth encasing his bones, and wish that he could know.

* * *

 

She never knew her own mother. Well, she did, for a short time. But she has no memory of the woman. Not how she looked, not how she was, not even her voice, which Papa always swore was beautiful. And if she has no memory of her mother, how can she be expected to be a good mother to her own baby? She doesn’t know the first thing about being a mother. What if she does something wrong? What if she hurts her baby? What if…what if when she first sees him she hates him, the way Erik’s mother did?

She confides her fears in Nadir, one late night when neither of them can sleep. He sips his tea, and sets the cup down, then leans over and hugs her. “You will be a wonderful mother,” he whispers, rubbing circles into her back. “I promise you you will be. The very fact that you have these worries is testament to the fact. And I will be there to help you, and Adelaide, and Darius. And Raoul and Sorelli too. You won’t have to go through it alone. And the moment you see your baby you’re going to love it, I promise.” The sadness in his voice reminds Christine of his own family, of long ago, and she nods, and feels a little easier in her heart.

* * *

 

_The baby squirms in her arms, the way he has squirmed inside of her for nine months now. He does not whimper, does not cry, only nuzzles deeper into her chest. With infinite tenderness she brushes back his thin strands of hair, so much like his father’s. He has Erik’s ears, too, the shape of Erik’s lips, and his skin is so thin she can see the veins winding beneath it. And, just like Erik, her tiny son does not have a nose._

_The midwife blessed herself when she saw the baby, and the doctor frowned even as the little boy cried, and in that moment Christine knew. She knew. And through the exhaustion, through the tears, she couldn't help smiling._

_He is very beautiful, her little boy. The most beautiful little baby she’s ever seen, and she leans in and presses her lips gently to his forehead._

Christine’s eyes flicker open, a faint smile curving her lips. If the baby looks like Erik, it might not be so bad.

* * *

 

She wonders what Erik would think of her dresses now. The beautiful mourning dresses that he designed and had made for her have been let out, to accommodate her growing belly. And she wonders, as her fingers ghost over the fine material, why he left extra fabric in the dresses, if he did not expect a baby. It was remarkably prescient of him, to design them thus, and grateful as she is to him the question crosses her mind of _why?_ _Why did he design them this way, unless he considered it a possibility?_ Did he know, that night that he came to her, just how real a possibility it was? Or was it merely a moment’s impulse, considering that she might want to have the dresses redesigned afterwards? So many questions about her husband, and not one with an answer.

* * *

 

Sorelli’s visits are regular, now. Every couple of days, and though they speak little it is enough to have her there. It feels almost normal, to have Sorelli quietly sewing beside her, as if they have always done this, and how Christine could ever begin to thank her, she does not know.

She should have made more of an effort to get to know her, before. But Darius and Adelaide keep them supplied with tea, and such concerns do not matter now.

* * *

 

“He cared for Reza deeply.” Nadir’s words are soft in the darkness of the room, the firelight glow playing across the hollows of his face. “I doubted many things about Erik, but I never doubted that. He used to bring him brightly coloured toys and trinkets, especially when Reza—when his sight was starting to fail. I did not long know Erik when he made Reza a music man that would play on command. All Reza had to do was clap, and the music would start to play. I never understood how he made it, but Reza loved that music man. Sometimes,” his smile is sad as he looks down into his lap, and Christine’s heart aches for him. “Sometimes I can still hear that music, even now...”

* * *

 

“I wish you could be here,” she whispers, as if he might be able to hear her from where he lies below her feet. “I would have liked to spend today with you. You never knew when my birthday was, and I never knew about yours. I still don't and I…I wish I did. We never spoke about such things. I suppose there was no time.” Just one more thing she never knew about her husband, and she doubts if Nadir ever knew either. It seems like the sort of thing that Erik wouldn't speak of to anyone.

But she wishes he had spoken of it with her. It’s the sort of thing a wife should know.

“I’d sing for you,” she whispers, “if you were here. I’d sing for you, and you’d play for me, and hold me. And we’d just hold each other, and it would be enough. What I wouldn't give—” Her throat tightens, and she can speak no more, only draw Erik’s cloak tighter around her, and ache for his arms.

* * *

 

It was his choice, that night. He came to her, and drew her gently to him, and kissed her, and whispered that he would _very much like to, if you wish to_. And she did wish, very much. She would not deny her husband, not when it was one of the very few times that he came to her himself, always so shy about, about such things. Normally she had to suggest it to him, kiss him softly and murmur that she would like to.

He was always so gentle, afraid of hurting her just as she was afraid of hurting him, of overstraining him. And it was a lovely night, a wonderful night made all the more special by what has come from it, though neither of them knew it at the time.

The baby kicks, a hard kick that almost winds her, as if to punctuate her thoughts, and as she gasps a breath she cannot help but smile.

And part of her wonders, a secret part of her wonders, if somehow Erik knew about the baby that would come from their love that night.

* * *

 

It is the first time since Erik’s death that she has been able to look at his music scores. She draws them out, and spreads them across her bed. She has no desire to read them, but to look, to see his spindly hand, the careful way he formed each note, as if it was infinitely precious, infinitely valuable. Her fingers trace the notes, her breath catching in her throat, and for a moment, one shining moment, his own hand might be resting on top of hers, guiding her touch across the page.

Her eyes prickle with tears, and she closes the score over, unable to bear the fact that he touched those pages once, too.

* * *

 

“I haven’t told him,” she whispers, her voice hoarse with tears. “I haven’t—I’ve tried, so many times, but every time I go to visit him, the words all catch in my throat, and I can’t get them out. But he nods to know, but I can’t tell him, and—”

“Ssshhh.” Raoul’s hands are soft as he reaches over, and pulls Christine close to him. “It’s all right, Christine. There’s no need to rush. You’ll be able to tell him sometime. It’s terrible, the way it’s happened, but this baby is a blessing, and I think he would feel that way too. He doesn’t need to know right away.” He doesn’t tell Christine that she’s foolish to be speaking to a grave, doesn’t tell her that surely Erik already knows, he just holds her, and strokes her hair, and the tears that have clogged her throat for so long come easily, now.

* * *

 

Six months. He’s been gone for six months. Half a year. The very idea of it is impossible to comprehend. It is a whole half year since he stopped breathing in her arms. When she puts it that way it is both an eternity and the blink of an eye. Six months.

Six months with a baby living inside of her to never know his father.

Some nights are easier than others, but tonight is not one of those nights, not when the baby kicks and shifts and reminds her that he will never know Erik, only what she, and Nadir, and Darius, and even Raoul, can tell him. It is not enough. It will never be enough, to give him stories. Her father gave her her mother in stories, and they were not enough, and Nadir gave Reza stories of Rookheeya, and they were not enough, and Sorelli’s mother gave her stories of her father, and they were not enough. And any story Christine can give her baby will never be enough to capture the man he was, the complexity of him, the beauty. And the pain, too, though she knows she will spare her baby the pain as much as possible.

Erik was beautiful, maybe not physically, but in his music. His voice. In the way he cared for her, and talked to Ayesha, and murmured to himself as he sketched, or composed. Beautiful in his sweet, high laugh. Beautiful in how he moved, how he stood, how his fingers twined with his pocket watch chain. Beautiful in the surprise on his face every time she kissed him, in the soft, teary look in his eyes. Beautiful in how he traced her cheek, in how he made certain she would always have what she needed. He was beautiful in a hundred, a thousand tiny ways, and it was that that she loved about him even if he never truly realised that, was never able to see the beauty in himself.

And it is six months, tonight, since he died. Six months. And in two months’ time she will hold her baby, his baby, in her arms, and tell the precious little baby about the wonderful man that his father was. And it will never be enough, but it will be all she can give him, and it will have to do.

* * *

 

Red roses. They were the only thing she could rightly choose to bring him, really.

She bought the bouquet herself, whispers of Erik’s voice echoing in her memory, reading that old Persian tale. Raoul offered to buy the flowers for her, and Darius, but it would not be the same coming from him, and certainly not from Raoul. Nadir, she thinks, understands, but he still insisted on accompanying her, citing her pregnancy as meaning she needs extra taking of, and she is grateful for him.

He does not follow her all the way to Erik’s grave. Instead he stands back, out of sight, and she prefers it that way. She needs to be alone for this, as alone as she ever is now.

With infinite gentleness, she presses one soft kiss to a rose, and sets the bouquet down, then draws in a shaky breath to brace herself, her heart pounding in her ears. It’s now or never, and she has spent days rehearsing these words.

Her fingers fumble at her wedding band, twist it slowly, and she takes another breath. “Erik,” she whispers, “Erik, I—” _Deep breath, focus._ “Erik, I, I meant to tell you sooner, but I just want you to know that we have a little red rose of our own on the way.” And it’s as easy as that to tell him. As easy as that to let all the words out – the baby, the doctor appointments, living with Nadir, Raoul’s proposal, and Sorelli’s friendship. Everything that she’s kept bottled up inside of her for months, and tears prickle her eyes, trickle down her cheeks, and she makes no attempt to stop them. They are his due, Erik and the baby’s both, and even when the words die from her throat, all spilled, she stands with his cloak drawn tight around herself, and lets every tear fall.


	15. Days Go By

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm honestly sorry for how long it's taken me to update this! Life has been insane for the last while with the end of semester coming up, and I have not been my best self. But I estimate that there might only seven chapters left, so hopefully the next chapter will not take too long!
> 
> Anyway, please R&R and enjoy the chapter! It's mostly transitional, but there are Things coming up!

Though she was eight months pregnant by then, Christine insisted on visiting Erik's grave on what would have been their first wedding anniversary. Nadir escorted her, and stood back to give her space, his own heart full of memories of that night. That night, and the tears in Erik's eyes as he smiled at her, the hesitance in his hands as he drew her to him, the soft whimper in his throat when she kissed him. And Nadir could not help feeling, that night, as if he were intruding on something private, as if he should have been there to witness it. But they both smiled at him, and thanked him for being there, and when he left them and returned home he could not sleep for thoughts of their happiness, and dreams of Rookheeya.

Rookheeya. She came back to him, that day by Erik's grave as he gave Christine space to talk to her husband, and he had to turn away to hide his tears, the pain in his heart suddenly so sharp, sharper than it's been in years. Rookheeya, and Erik. And he and Christine, left behind. And he has taken care of her, and helped her as best as he can, and he hopes, every day he hopes, deep down, that Rookheeya has taken care of Erik.

He drew a breath, drew several breaths, and composed himself, and Christine gave him a shaky, teary smile when she was ready to head for home. And all was well, or as well as could be, until that night.

The pains came on slow, little twinges that she said afterwards she ignored as merely being her muscles protesting. But then they became more regular, and sharper, and when the first blood appeared Adelaide took care of her while Darius ran for the doctor.

And Nadir could only stand by helpless, and hold her hand as she cried and whimpered, and silently pray every prayer he ever knew as he promised her she would be all right,  _you will be all right._

She _was_ all right, in the end, her and the baby both. The doctor ushered Nadir out of the room, and gave her something that calmed her, and managed to stop the bleeding, and before he left said it was the culmination of all of her stress and grief, and left strict instructions for her not to leave the bed again, for the sake of the baby.

That is a month ago now, or almost, and although Christine has felt weak several times, she has heeded his orders and rested, and there have been no more episodes of bleeding though there has been some pain.  _To be expected_ , the doctor said, and Adelaide agreed.

Adelaide. Nadir is not certain what they would do without her. She has been a comfort to Christine through this difficult time, and a comfort to him too, and to Darius. She has been through it herself, after all, has had her own children and assisted at lyings-in, and so even when they are troubled she is calm, at least on the surface, and for Christine's sake that is what matters. But under the surface—

Under the surface is a different woman, and Nadir caught a glimpse of her that night after the doctor left, when she sipped the only brandy he has seen her take.

The Vicomte, and La Sorelli, have of course visited as much as possible in the last month, never staying long for fear of wearing Christine out. And Nadir knows that she has asked them to be godparents to the child, when the time comes.

When. The closer it comes the more nauseous he feels. It could be any day, and he is not ready.  _She_  is not ready.  _None_  of them are ready, for this baby born from death. How could they be after everything? And sometimes, sometimes he is so overwhelmed at the thought of it, that he cannot help the tears that spring to his eyes.

It should not be him taking care of her. Should not be him and should not be Darius and should not be Adelaide. It should be Erik holding her hand and seeing to her every need. Should be Erik talking quietly to her and panicking when he is away from her, when she cannot see the turmoil raging in his heart. Erik should be here, he  _should be here_ , father and husband, of _course_ he should be here. But he is gone where he cannot be reached, and if Nadir could go, could go and bring him back, he would in a heartbeat.

The thought has crossed his mind many times in the eight months, now, since Erik's death, but never more so than in these last weeks with the time drawing ever shorter. Any day now the baby will come, any day, and he will not be here to hold him, will not be here to see him, to name him. And the pain twists inside of Nadir, keener than ever, but he must not let Christine see him cry.

She cries enough without him upsetting her more.

Nadir sits with her, as much as he can, and tells her stories of Erik. The same stories he has told her a hundred times in these months since his death, but she never minds, always asks to hear them again and if they bring her some measure of comfort so be it. He always leaves out the worst bits, to protect her what little bit he can, and she does not object. And he tells her old Persian stories, recites poems and translates them as best he can, and she smiles even with tears slipping down her cheeks, and squeezes his hand.

She is paler than she has been all through, and has little appetite though she eats just enough to keep her strength up.

Ayesha, that infernal cat, is at her side every moment, always curled on the bedsheets over her legs. And she growls at the Vicomte and regards him through one eye, but never objects to any of the rest of them. The thought comes, a strange incongruous thought one night, that perhaps there is part of Erik inside of that cat, and in spite of himself, Nadir laughs.

It would be just something the magician in Erik would do, leave part of himself in a cat.

The laugh turns mildly hysterical, and turns into a sob, and when the tears dry all Nadir can do is lie on his bed, his throat aching, too numb to move, to think.

He falls into a restless sleep, and wakes in a sweat, Rookheeya's cold, limp hand resting in his once more. He blinks, and the illusion shatters. He is not in Persia, has not _been_ in Persia in well over a decade, and she has been gone for so long,  _so long_ , and he cannot remember her laugh though it comes to him sometimes on the breeze, and sometimes he sees something almost the precise shade of olive as her eyes and his heart lurches, and his fingers ache for her touch every day, and the cadence of her voice haunts her dreams, and he lies there a long time, on that bed so many thousands of miles from where her life slipped away from him, and the tears leak slowly from the corners of his eyes.

He could not save her, and he could not save their precious boy, and he could not save Erik either. He failed them, each of them, Rookheeya, and Reza, and Erik, and there is nothing,  _nothing_  he can do to change that. And lying there the fact of it hits him colder, heavier, than it ever has before.

It is Darius who interrupts him, and shatters his thoughts.

"Madame Christine wishes to speak to you," he murmurs, and for a moment Nadir can only stare at him, and wonder how he came to be standing in the doorway if he never heard the door creak open. But of course the door  _is_  open, and Darius  _is_  standing in it, and Nadir collects himself, and nods.

"All right."

Darius nods, and steps back out, his Nadir listens to his footsteps heavy as he walks back to the kitchen, and with a groaning effort rolls off the bed.

Christine is waiting for him, propped up in bed with pillows behind her, and one of Erik's scores open on her lap. Adelaide nods when she sees Nadir, and she slips out, easing the door closed behind her. Nadir settles in the chair beside the bed, the one he has occupied so many times now in the last month, and Christine smiles tremblingly at him, her face paler than ever.

"It's one he wrote in Belgium," she says softly, her fingers light on the lines of the score, covering the notes in the bold hand that he is so familiar with. "It's certainly not the happiest piece, but it's not one of the worse ones either and I— I like it."

Nadir musters a smile for her, and nods. "I'm certain he would be happy to hear that."  _His music always was so precious to him_ , the thought whispers, but he clamps down on it. She knows that, of course, she knows that. No need to repeat it for no reason.

She nods, and closes the score, and sets it gently on the bedside table, before looking back down at her hands, folded in her lap. "Nadir," she murmurs, "I— Well— I would like it if—" she swallows and he waits for her, half-expecting that he knows what she might say. "I would like, Nadir, for you— If something should happen to me," and her voice cracks but she ploughs on and he  _does_  know what his answer is because there can only _be_ one answer, but perhaps it is best to let her finish, "if something happens I want you to take care of the baby." The words tumble out in a rush. "I want you to be there for him, to look after him, and I know it's asking so much and I know I don't have the right to ask any more of you after all you've already done for me but--"

"Christine." He cuts across her with her name, and lays his hand lightly on top of hers. "There is no need to ask. I would be honoured to take of your child. But—" the words catch in his throat, and he swallows, and looks her square in her teary eyes. "But nothing will happen to you, I swear. You will be fine, I promise you will."  _So help me_ , he thinks and knows it is out of his hands but if there is anything he can do...

Her lip trembles, and the tears spill down her pale cheeks, and she murmurs, so faintly he almost doesn't hear her, "Thank you."


	16. Ending Waiting

It starts in the early hours of the morning. Darius is shaken from sleep by Master Nadir, who instructs him to send for the doctor. He fumbles his way into his clothes, and is out the door before he is wholly aware of it, the cold air of the street pulling him into the world of the waking.

The doctor, in turn, is woken from sleep by Darius. He asks questions as he prepares that Darius has no answers to – how long has she been suffering pains? Have her waters broken? But all Darius knows is what Nadir told him, that it's started, and he can only assume it is not long started because she was well a handful of hours ago before he turned into bed.

The doctor does not hasten, insists even on combing his hair, and the whole time that Darius is waiting for him – which cannot be more than a half hour – every fibre of him is screaming to hurry up, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts as he fiddles with the buttons on his coat, each thought a repeat of the same.  _Madame Christine is having the baby. The baby is coming. Erik's baby. If we don't hurry she could lose him. She could lose herself!_  But though the words circle round and round in his thoughts he keeps them firmly clamped inside. The doctor is the professional. The doctor knows about these things. If the doctor is not obviously worried then perhaps there is no need for he, Darius, to be.

He tells himself these things, but telling himself is a lot easier than believing them.

They arrive back at the Rue de Rivoli, and the doctor sequesters himself in Madame Christine's room with her and Adelaide, and Darius and Master Nadir are left in the parlour, waiting.

Darius makes tea. It is easier, to fall back on the rhythm of tea-making at such a time than to let himself sit idle. He makes tea – tea for himself and tea for Nadir and tea for Adelaide and tea for the doctor, and for Madame Christine too though he does not know if she will be able to drink it. The silence of the house is punctuated by her whimpers, and Nadir winces at each one.

The doctor steps back out of room after only quarter of an hour, his footsteps echoing through the air.

"It is much too soon to intervene yet," he says, his voice soft as he washes his arms in the warm water Darius brings him. "The girl has much work to do. I will be back in about three hours. If you need me before that, and the maid will know, send for me and I will come at once, but I suggest you both get some sleep while you can."

* * *

 

The three hours pass, but neither Darius nor Master Nadir sleep. It is unseemly to sleep at such a time, when Madame Christine is working so hard to bring a child into the world, her whimpering and crying seeping through the walls. And Darius knows, knows though he does not know how, that not all of her tears are due to pain.

Nadir reads, or tries to. More often he finds himself consulting his watch, consulting the clock. Flicking through books at random, and sighing. Darius dusts the parlour, re-arranges the small ornaments on their shelves, and then when that is done starts again. In between he brings towels to Adelaide, who pokes her head out the door with her requests, and he brings her tea too, for her and Madame Christine both who is only allowed sips, and sets the soiled towels to steeping.

The doctor arrives, as promised, at the end of the three hours, with the first green crack of daybreak off in the distant sky. He acknowledges them with a nod, and steps back into the room.

A little while later he appears out again, and Darius sets his duster aside.

“There is little change," the doctor murmurs, glancing at the closed door. "It is common for a first birth to take hours, even a whole day, but I fear that with all she's been through she will grow weak before too long."

The colour drains from Nadir's face at his words, and a chill runs down Darius' spine. "What—” the word catches in his throat, and he swallows to try again, smoothing his fingers over the creases in his waistcoat. "What can you do?"

The doctor shrugs. "Not much of anything yet. She needs to make more progress on her own before I can intervene. As a last resort, it may become necessary to deliver the baby surgically. But that is not a preferable circumstance at all."

Darius does not ask why that would not be a preferable circumstance, decides that he would prefer not to know, and the doctor hesitates only a moment before continuing. "I have not told her any of this. It would only worry her unnecessarily, and perhaps only hamper her. She needs time, and encouragement. It is my... _understanding_ that she has no family, but is there someone you can send for? Some female friend who may be of comfort?"

Darius nods at the same moment as Master Nadir says, "Yes," and silently Darius curses himself for not thinking of it sooner. Of course they should send for La Sorelli, of course, and Nadir's troubled eyes meet his in a silent understanding.

"I'll go for her right away." The words are out of Darius' mouth almost before he has a chance to think them, and a moment later he is out the door and in the chill Paris air for the second time in a handful of hours.

* * *

 

La Sorelli is standing before Darius five minutes after her maid answers the door, fully-dressed and pulling on one black glove. "It is time?" she asks, a question which is not truly a question, a shadow of worry in her dark eyes, and Darius nods. "How are things going with her? Have you sent for a doctor?"

For a moment he almost answers her  _badly_ , but he swallows the word and instead says, "Very slowly. She has been at it for hours with Adelaide helping her. The doctor is in with her now."

La Sorelli nods, pulling on a second glove as she crosses to the doorway. "In that case we must not delay."

They do not speak on the journey back to the Rue de Rivoli, and La Sorelli keeps her face impassive though every now and then Darius catches a flicker of fear in her eyes that lances his heart.

* * *

 

After escorting La Sorelli, Darius leaves again, this time in search of the Vicomte de Chagny. It is Master Nadir's suggestion, given with a slight turn down of his lip, after informing Darius that there is no more news. Darius lingers only long enough to make him some fresh tea, and departs.

The Vicomte pales as soon he hears the words, and hurried out the door still fixing his clothing.

Morning, then midday, then afternoon finds the three men still sitting in the parlour, drinking the tea that Darius feels compelled to make and making idle chatter though mostly they sit in silence, each to their own thoughts, and Darius dusts though there can be no dust left now.

There has been no appearance from the doctor, none from Sorelli. Both of them have remained cloistered with Christine, tending to her and talking to her. Adelaide pops out occasionally, to take tea in and fresh water and towels, and she brings the news that though there has, indeed, been progress, it has been incrementally slow. Darius swallows the tightness of his throat each time at the sight of her pale features, more troubled and drawn as she lets the door click shut behind her and her masks fall away away from Christine, away from Sorelli. The afternoon turns towards evening, and still there is little change.

* * *

 

Darius has never been one for spreading stories. Even in Persia the other servants knew that he would be discreet with any news that came his way, and did not try to pry even when they murmured amongst themselves. But when Nadir slips from the room around dusk, and he hears the front door close as his master steps out onto the street, Darius cannot help the voice in his head that demands he justify his actions, so the Vicomte, that pale boy who sits there and speaks barely a word though he is not of their world, does not think him uncaring.

Still, his heart is pounding as he utters the words, and it is not truly the effect of the words. “It is difficult for him, to hear her suffering so. He—his wife, Mistress Rookheeya, died many years ago in childbirth." He sips his tea and, news relayed though it is hardly news after four decades, sits deeper into his chair.

The Vicomte seems to struggle over the words, blinking rapidly as he comprehends them. "You mean he— he—Nadir has a child?"

The words hang in the air, and not for the first time Darius is reminded of the night he gave the Vicomte the news of Erik's death, and his first thought was to inquire after Madame Christine. The boy seems to have a talent for missing the precise point of what he is being told.

"He had. Young Master Reza was always a sickly boy, and he died some years later." He sets his tea down, and levels his gaze with the Vicomte's, the memory of brightly coloured toys from the market feeling as new as if he were in Mazanderan again, and the next words weigh almost more solemnly on his tongue than the first ones. "There are many things I could say about Erik, about the horrors he created and the pain he inflicted, but he was always very good to that boy." He watches as the news sinks in, and the Vicomte's face sinks back from curiosity into the familiar melancholy lines he has known these last months.

"Sometimes," the boy's voice is soft, and low, "sometimes I think, with the more I hear, that if things had been different, if the circumstances had not been what they were, I might almost have gotten to like him." And then fainter, so faint that Darius barely hears him though the words soften his heart towards the boy nonetheless, "For all he's done, I regret that I never had the chance to try."

Darius nods, and they fall back into silence with their tea, though it is an easier silence now. And a little while later Nadir returns, with that dark cast to his eyes that suggests he has been below the opera, and the waiting resumes.


	17. Visitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this chapter out quicker than expected, and though it's short I hope to have the next one out within a week or so. I hope you enjoy this one, and please let me know what you think!

Voices. Muffled voices. That is all she hears through the fog of her brain. Not the words, though sometimes they rise to sharp clarity urging her on, forcing her, commanding her. Only the voices.

Another wave of pain comes ripping through her lower back, and her breath catches in her throat. The darkness dances at the the edge of her vision, so tempting, full of the promise of relief, of no pain, of easy breaths.

Of silence.

The promise of silence. Silence those muffled voices that call her name and urge her to hold on, to keep breathing. Silence them and silence the pain and silence the buzzing in her brain, that buzzing as if of faint music drifting on the breeze, of a thousand tiny bees buzzing on and on and she blessedly cannot hear the words for the buzzing but the buzzing is infinitely worse.

The silence buzzes, coats every nerve, and stills.

Fingertips, light against her cheek, soft fingertips and behind her eyes she can see a pair of glowing eyes, someone else’s eyes, hazel and a hint of gold. “Christine.” Her name, soft on the low voice that goes with those eyes, that voice that she has not heard in months and her heart twists, throbs, as it murmurs again, “Christine, my dear girl.”

Her eyes prickle hot with tears as soft lips brush her forehead. “You have nothing to fear, dear girl, nothing to fear.” She was always _dear girl_ to him, always, when he was well and when he was ill and she has ached to hear those words for so long, and they echo softly in her ear. _Dear girl_. _Dear girl_. _Dear girl_. His voice cuts through the murmuration. “The pain will end soon enough.”

Pain. The pain has already faded to dull throbbing, those voices that came with it lost, nothing now, not with this voice, this soft voice and those glowing eyes, and the fingertips against her cheek.

“Erik.” Her lips form the name as if they are someone else’s lips, not her lips, distant and remote and none of her concern. But the glowing eyes crinkle, almost frown, and the voice when it comes again is hoarse, roughened from the tears that shine in those eyes.

“I did not mean to hurt you so—I did not intend—I never—Forgive me, my darling,” the voice cracks, eyes blinking away, and her chest tightens.

“No! Don't—Don’t—” She lost him before, lost him before and he slipped away and there was nothing she could do to bring him back, nothing that could keep him with her and he was gone even as he lay heavy in her arms, and everything was cold and hollow and now he’s _here_ again and _slipping away_ again and her fingers grasp at the air, grasp for his big coat, his cloak, and find only empty space.

“Christine! Chris…tine.” Not his voice, not his voice someone else’s, high and strained and arms tight around her, cold hand pressed to her forehead, shoulder soft beneath her head, “…nearly there, Christine…nearly there…”

Nearly where? No where matters, not without him, not when he is lost to the darkness, lost to her. And if she can't find him, if she can't hear him and feel him and touch him, then what does anything matter? There is nothing without him, nothing, only pain and emptiness and the heavy aching in her chest that makes it feel as if she’ll never draw another breath again and another wave of pain rips through her stomach, and a thin wail pierces the air, and there’s another contraction of pain before she’s falling, falling

Falling.

The darkness that enfolds her is welcome.


	18. Dénouement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not actually as long as I expected it to be, but rest assured there are longer chapters on the way. Just as soon as I write them

Water, bitter and hot on her lips. Burning the cracks, stinging them into numbness and she runs her tongue over them as if that can bring her some relief, gags on the vaguely metallic tang.

Not water, brandy.

“It’s all right, Christine, you’re all right.” That voice, it was there before, was soft and gentle telling her that she was _nearly there_. And there was a wail, a thin wail that pierced her thoughts even as she slipped beneath the darkness.

A thin wail, a cry.

A baby.

A baby. _Her_ baby, hers and Erik’s and it all comes tumbling back. Her dead husband, and the tiny baby he left growing inside of her. But—that’s wrong. Erik cannot be dead. He was here only a moment ago, wasn't he? Apologising for hurting her? And she tried to stop him but he slipped through her fingers, and even now he’s probably waiting for her to wake up.

_Wake up!_

His voice, a command. She cannot disobey—she _must_ follow that command.

Her eyes flicker open, and the world is a blur of soft lamplight and dark hair. She blinks again and a face takes form before her. Not Erik’s, a woman’s, a woman with dark eyes and pinched, worried features and the name swims to her.

“Sorelli.” Her throat is rough, her voice at once hers and not hers, but Sorelli smiles at her, her eyes gentle.

“You’re all right, Christine, I promise. You swooned, but you’re all right now.”

_All right_. Those words have swarmed around her for so long now, along with _nearly there_. _All right_ , _nearly there_. _Nearly there_ , _all right_. Over and over and over again, a litany of them.

Sorelli is still talking, her voice soft, and Christine strains to hear the words. “…doctor almost finished…Adelaide…baby…”

Baby. The baby. And with the very thought comes the _pain_ , the aching in her stomach and her back and the stinging between her legs. Pain, and she whimpers and Sorelli’s fingers curl around her own, safe and warm, her other hand light on Christine’s hair.

“…a little boy…”

The words are clearer than the others, more important, and Christine’s heart stutters. A boy. A _boy_.

“Is—”

Sorelli’s smile widens and she nods. “He’s fine I promise.”

Already the world is slipping away again, and Christine’s eyes flicker closed, hiding Sorelli though the pain still lingers. Her baby is fine, her baby is safe, and that is what matters now, nothing else. And in the space between one thought and the next, she falls asleep.

* * *

 

The door creaks open, and Nadir looks up to find Sorelli standing there, the decanter of brandy in her hand, and a tired smile on her face.

“She’s resting,” she says, setting the decanter down on the table. “The doctor feels it best to let her sleep for a while.”

“And the baby?” The question tumbles off Nadir’s lips, his heart pounding. There was the cry of a baby some time ago, but it has been silent since and he needs to know, he _needs_ to.

Sorelli nods. “A boy. Fine and healthy. Adelaide is taking care of him.”

The relief is dizzying, and Nadir sinks back into his chair. In the corner, the Vicomte breathes a soft, “Thank God.” From the corner of his eye Nadir sees him stand, then he’s across the room and pressing a kiss to Sorelli’s cheek. Darius laughs, then coughs, and slips into the kitchen, and Nadir can't help the giggle that erupts inside him in spite of the tears that burn his eyes. Christine is all right! And the baby is well! It’s all he’s prayed for for months now, as soon as he heard the news, and it has come to pass and all is well and oh, but he could _dance_ , and in a moment he’s up too, and pulling Sorelli into his arms, and Raoul, the Vicomte who has ceased to be a Vicomte, who has become one of them. And they whirl in a tangle of limbs and laughter until Nadir collapses into a chair, and Raoul and Sorelli land on top of him.

Nadir’s head is spinning from their dancing, and he closes his eyes, tilts his head back. And as if in the distance he hears a faint whisper of a voice that has been silent for so long. _Thank you for looking after her, my friend._

_My friend_. Nadir’s throat tightens and he swallows, the weight disappearing from his lap as Raoul and Sorelli stand. _My friend_ , he thinks in answer to that voice, _I could not have let her fend for herself, not after everything. It was the only thing to be done._ And in his head, as clear as if he saw that face only yesterday and not eight months ago, Nadir can see the crinkles around the eyes and the turned-down edges of the contemplative smile, and his heart aches but that Erik could be here now.

Tears leak from the corners of his eyes, and Nadir makes no effort to stop them.


	19. Introduction

The moment Adelaide sets the baby in her arms, Christine’s breath catches in her throat. The last vestiges of tiredness fall away, helped by the tea Adelaide insisted she drink, and all she can do is stare, stare at the tiny, squirming wonder in her arms. Distantly, as if through water, she hears Adelaide busy herself with the tea things, gathering them together to take out, but it is of another world, and Christine’s heart twists, tears prickling her eyes.

She has a baby, a _baby_ , a tiny perfect son. It is impossible to take in and even as the words echo in her brain all she can do is muster a trembling smile for the little boy in her arms. His round, bleary eyes gaze up at her, bleary blue eyes. Adelaide told her that all babies are born with blue eyes, that it is only as they age that they change, and the thought comes to Christine that she has never seen anything more beautiful than the pair of blue eyes looking up at her now.

He looks nothing like his father, and somehow Christine knows Erik would be relieved over that. His face is flawless, round cheeks and pale smooth skin without even the hint of the sight of the skull beneath, and a delicate little button nose. A baby that the world could smile on, and yet Christine cannot help the tiny flicker of disappointment in her heart. A baby that looked like Erik would be a testament to him, to the fact of his existence, proof that she had loved him. It would put to bed once and for all the whispers of rumours that that this baby is Raoul’s. But her son did not inherit his father’s face, is flawless and beautiful and perfect, and the rumours are bound to persist but it is not fair, _not fair_ , her little boy is _Erik’s_ and no one else’s and they’ll never see that, never—

Her heart pounds in her throat and she swallows, shakes her head to drive those thoughts away. They have no place, matter not a damn. It is only her son that matters now, only her son nuzzling into her chest, and she bows her head, and presses one light kiss to his soft forehead. “I love you,” she murmurs, the words strange and right on her lips, and for the first time, for the first real time since she found out about him living inside of her, she knows that they are true.

* * *

 

Adelaide comes back in, and helps her feed the baby, and afterwards he sleeps peacefully in Christine’s arms, wrapped in his green blanket, and she studies him some more, unable to help the tears that trickle down her cheeks. She has been waiting for this for so long, waiting and worrying and waiting, months and months of it and towards the end of it the thought of being able to move again without him inside of her was something she looked forward to, but now she does not want to move at all, wants only to hold him to her like this, his little head pressed to her chest. She presses another gentle kiss to his hair, thin and blonde and so soft beneath her lips, and aches to whisper to him how long she’s waited and how much she’s wanted him, but her throat is too tight and the words won't come.

He has a perfect little bowed lip, the type that belongs to babies in paintings, and she traces her finger lightly over it, and wonders. She does not have a bow to her lip, and Erik’s lips were so distorted it was impossible to tell how they might have been if—If.

Christine’s eyes fall to the baby’s ears, elegantly closed, and her breath catches. Erik's ears were untouched by his deformity, completely and wholly untouched though they curved in a very particular way, and as she looks now Christine can see that the baby’s are the same. Precisely the same, and tears prickle her eyes again, a giddy laugh building in her chest so that she cannot help giggling, and she traces her finger lightly over the shell of one ear, and swallows.

“You are very like your father,” she murmurs, and it is one and the same time the truth and not the truth but a chuckle escapes her and before she knows it she’s laughing, laughing in a way she has not laughed for months.

* * *

 

Later, a long long time later, the baby still nestled safe against her breast, a conversation drifts back to her. Erik, so long ago now though it feels like only days might have passed since they talked that night, lying in their bed with his head pillowed on her belly, tired and drained from a day when his heart gave him spells of trouble, but not a true attack. Her mind tells her, reminds her, that it was only six weeks before his death, and she shakes that little voice from her head. She must not think of his death with their baby cradled in her arms. It will only hurt the little boy, for surely he is attuned to every moment of his mother’s grief, having lived inside of her for so long. She cannot inflict more pain on him now. It would be cruel of her to do so.

But she must remember that night, must focus on it, hold it close. Erik, in a contemplative mood insisting on being close to her though she tried to tell him the bed would be more comfortable for his aching body if he were alone. And there was almost a barb to his words as his lip curled and he whispered, “My Christine, always so kind, so thoughtful, but she does not understand that her Erik cannot rest if she is not here,” but she knew it was not her he was angry with, but himself for the weakness of his body, and she murmured an apology and kissed his forehead, and stroked his hair, and held him as close as she dared, ever-fearful of hurting him.

“Charles,” he breathed, a long time later, so long she had almost begun to think him asleep, “my mother was Madeleine, and my father was Charles. Charles de la Fontaine.” It was the first time he mentioned his father, aside from one throwaway reference that he had left his mother a pregnant widow (and oh, how such a thought cuts to the very core now.)

“Does that make me Madame de la Fontaine?” she wondered into the darkness, not truly expecting an answer but the words felt right to say and he gave a breathless little chuckle, and murmured, “It does not become you. You shall be Madame Daaé, and I will be Monsieur Daaé.” And left implicit was the suggestion that _de la Fontaine_ never belonged to him, was never his name.

But that thought did not occur to her until afterwards. In that moment all she could think was that of all the ridiculous things she’d heard him say that sounded the most ridiculous, but how her heart soared, and he shifted in the bed until he was above her, and pressed a soft, tentative kiss to her lips, and they slept that night cheek to cheek, perfectly wrapped in each other’s embrace.

She looks down, now, at the tiny baby boy sleeping in her arms, Erik feeling so very far away, and through her watery eyes Christine knows that just as the baby could never be a Charles, he could never be a de la Fontaine either, and Erik would approve of him being a Daaé more than anything else. So she smiles at her little boy, though he cannot see her with his tiny closed eyes, and brushes her thumb gently over his curled fingers, and whispers so softly it might be a prayer, “Erik Konstantin Daaé, for your father and mine,” and she kisses his forehead and holds him close, and lets the tears trickle free.


	20. Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last proper chapter of the fic! All that's left is the Epilogue, which I'll post in a few days. In the meantime, please do drop a comment! It would make me so happy this close to the end!

Hours pass before Adelaide permits any of them to visit Christine, insisting that the girl needs her rest and needs time with her baby before she can receive any of them. And though Nadir is tired, and, he knows, both Darius and Raoul are too, none of them are able to sleep. They are too relieved, too happy to rest, and so they sit and drink tea and the champagne that the Comte de Chagny sent after receiving Raoul’s note that all is well with Christine and the baby. He sent not one bottle, but two, and they set one aside for when Christine is up to celebrating.

Sorelli sits with them, smiling and pleased and sometimes Nadir catches a secretive look in her eye that makes him wonder. It wonder slips from his tired mind in moments, too caught up in the champagne and relief to linger.

As the night wears on, Nadir catches himself dozing in the soft glow of the fire. Such a long way from last night, such a long way from every night for eight months now and more. He dozed by the fire, too, the night he returned from marrying Christine to Erik. And though he cobbled together the words, the ceremony, they were very nearly the most solemn things he’d ever spoken, and Erik looked at the girl with tears shining in his eyes, and Nadir was hard-pressed not to cry, only to smile. If he’d known what would happen, if he’d known how it would end, would he have agreed to help them? Even knowing the pain that would so shortly follow?

He would have. He knows that, firmly knows it without a shadow of a doubt. They were happy together, however short it was, and now there is this baby, this miracle, so perhaps the suffering, or some of it, was worth it in the end.

“Go to bed, Master. There is no need to stay up now.” Darius’ voice is soft in his ear, the thread of concern clear to hear, but Nadir shakes his head.

He blinks his eyes open, the room hazy. “No, no. I’m all right, but perhaps…perhaps some more tea.”

* * *

 

It is a little while later that Adelaide judges Christine strong enough to receive guests.

Nadir goes first, combing his hair back with his hand, more awake now after the last cup of tea. He knocks softly on the door, and at her murmured “Come in” eases it open.

She is propped up in bed, pillows to her back and her hair brushed, the baby wrapped up in a blanket in her arms. Nadir’s heart lurches at the sight of her, at how terribly pale she is even though he was expecting it, and for a moment he is standing before Rookheeya again, and Reza is but a tiny newborn. _How pale she is_ was the first thought that came to him, along with a terrible, twisting check of fear, and he has spent every day wishing since that his heart had not been so prescient.

But such a fate will not befall Christine. So long as she is careful, does not push herself. The doctor has assured him of that, yet still there is that dark part of him that whispers of infection, that whispers she is not safe yet. Even now disease could be working insidiously within her, like Rookheeya before, but Nadir swallows and pushes the thoughts away, and musters a smile for her. It would not do to show her the fears that linger within him, would only make her fret, and if she does not know it cannot upset her.

He settles on the edge of the bed, close enough to see the baby’s fingers poking through the blankets, the tiny curled fingers, and his heart lurches again and it is Reza lying in her arms, Reza so tiny and new and perfect, and tears sting his eyes again and he blinks hard against them, the memory vanishing.

Christine smiles at him shyly, and he leans in, presses one quick kiss to her cheek before turning his eyes, properly to the baby.

And the wave of relief that washes over him when he sees the little boy has not inherited Erik’s face is weakening. Nadir swallows the breath that catches in his throat and smiles at her, a true proper smile this time, murmuring softly so as not to wake the sleeping baby, “He’s lovely. Contragulations.” It occurs to him to ask if she has decided on a name for the baby, but he clamps down on the words. Only a few days ago she confided in him that she had avoided giving the matter any thought, lest it would tempt Fate.

In the end, he does not need to ask her.

“Erik,” she breathes, tears glistening in her eyes. “Erik Konstantin. That’s what I’ve decided on for him.”

_Erik Konstantin. Erik._ Nadir has to fight the lump in his throat. “It sounds nice.” The words are inadequate, but he has to say something, _needs_ to say something. “Konstantin was your father’s name, was it?”

She nods, one tear trickling down her cheek, and smiles. “Konstantin Gustaf. But he always said Gustaf was a terrible name to curse someone with.”

Nadir cannot help the laughter that bubbles up inside his chest. It might be something Erik could have said, once upon a time, with that critical curl to his lip and the pang of pain at the thought makes him gasp. “He might have been right,” he chuckles, trying to keep the tears at bay.

She nods, her own tears still trickling down her cheeks despite her faint smile. “I think he was.”

* * *

 

It is only shortly after that that Darius and Raoul join them, both of them quiet. Darius carries tea, and sets it down on the bedside locker before he squeezes Christine’s hand and kisses her forehead. It is such an uncharacteristic thing for him to do that Nadir chuckles, then catches himself and glances at the baby, baby _Erik_ , to be certain that he is still settled sleeping in his mother’s arms. Darius blushes, and busies himself at the tea tray, and Christine bites her lip to hide her own giggling.

Nadir sips his tea when Darius presses it into his hands, and lets the flow of soft talk wash over him. In the morning, he will go deep below the opera again, and find the simple cross he fashioned that marks where Erik lies, and he will tell him about his family, about his wife that came through a terrible ordeal, and about the little son that bears his name. And he will stand a long time, lost in his thoughts about what has been, and what is to come, and keep the aching that Erik could be here to see it at bay. And then he will come back, and bring flowers, and likely find that Raoul has brought some too, and they will sit a long time, content and at peace. And all will be well.


	21. Epilogue - Sixteen Years Later

Her second wedding is set to be very different from her first. For one thing it is aboveground, with an actual priest and actual wedding guests. For another, her son is in attendance. He, in fact, insisted on composing the first dance.

“No one else could do it justice, Maman,” he said, with that slight gleam in his hazel eyes, and she bit back the longing to say that he sounded just like his father.

For a third different thing, she is already with child. Nadir and Sorelli are the only ones she has confided in, and she suspects that Nadir told Darius because Darius has taken to making her the peppermint tea that calms her stomach. This time she recognised the symptoms herself, and the doctor merely confirmed her suspicions. She will tell Raoul about the baby in a few weeks, towards the end of their honeymoon. She wants to enjoy that first time with him as if they were any other couple.

And Konstin. She will tell Konstin of his impending sibling when she and Raoul return. She will sit him down and tell him, and she knows, she _knows,_ he will be happy for the news, but she cannot help the flicker of fear in her heart.

He was perfectly lovely about Raoul. Of course, they have been together for more than three years, so their decision to marry could not be a surprise to anyone. But still, Konstin smiled and congratulated her, then stood up and shook Raoul’s hand and joked that perhaps he ought to start calling him father now, then added, softly, _if it had to be any man…_

Sometimes, she thinks he gets more like Erik every day, and not just with his height or his dark hair.

She discovered, very early on, that she could not call her son Erik. Erik might be his name, but Erik would always be his father to her, could never be him. So with Konstantin as his middle name she abbreviated it, and before he was a week old he was Konstin to everyone.

By the time she returns, he will be preparing to return to the Conservatoire for the next term. He entered at fifteen, and Philippe pulled some strings to ease his way. Konstin has not mentioned it to her, but she knows he wants his education out of the way and to have some time at the Garnier before his National Service comes up.

Philippe has promised him a commission.

Philippe is the one who told her.

“The Navy would never suit him,” he said, in his usual forthright way, “but I will do what I can for him.”

And she knows he will. Sorelli would kill him otherwise, before she or Raoul would ever get the chance.

The twins, of course, will enter the Navy. They are only six months younger than Konstin, and though he could not have siblings in his childhood they are both like brothers to him. Sorelli confided the secret of her own pregnancy in Christine when Konstin was only a few weeks old, before she ever told Philippe about it. And as soon as she _did_ tell Philippe he insisted on marrying her, and though she knew she could not return to the stage after the twins if she agreed, she agreed anyway, and they have been happy together ever since.

As for Christine herself. Raoul proposed to her at the opening night of her last opera, right after a whirlwind of a perfect performance. And she agreed, knowing that after closing night she would never perform again. When closing night came, several weeks later, it was mingled happiness and pain. Happiness to marry Raoul, pain at leaving the stage that has been her home for so long. It was Nadir who gently prodded her back to the opera, when Konstin was a little more than two, and she has been grateful to him for it ever since. And that last night, as she stood on the stage and took her final bow and the orchestra played a piece of Erik’s, the first that she had arranged to have performed on that stage after her return, as that music played she looked up at Box Five, knowing that her family was there. She could not see them through the lights and the tears in her eyes, but she knew they were all there. Konstin, Raoul, Nadir, Darius, Philippe and Sorelli. And Erik too, surely, in his own way, smiling benevolently and proud. She could almost see him behind her eyes…

The soft singing of the choir drifts to Christine through the crack in the door, wakes her from her thoughts. Five more minutes, until she will walk out and up that aisle to stand beside her future husband. It is not the first time she almost married Raoul, but this is closer than she got before, and this time she will go through with it.

This time there is no Erik for her to go back to, and the pain lances sharply beneath her ribs, sharper than it has been in such a long time. It has been more than sixteen years – almost seventeen, if she is being honest – since his death, and those years have dulled the pain though it has never gone away. She knows it never _will_ go away, not fully, only soften more and more and sometimes she feels the ghost of his fingertips on the back of her hand, but that touch does not cut her the way it used to.

So many things do not cut her the way they used to.

Erik would be pleased, that at last she is marrying Raoul. She knows that. He directed her to, once, long ago before she ever returned to him. And if she had married Raoul then she would never have had Konstin, so it is for the best that she did not do it then. And now she will have both Raoul and her son, and this new baby, too, that lives beneath her heart.

She hopes it is a daughter. A daughter would be nice and she already has a son, but she will be happy either way.

For the last time as Christine Daaé, she turns and regards herself in the mirror. Sorelli helped her pin her hair, brushed on her make-up and smiled at her. And Konstin gave her a diamond bracelet, simply saying it was something old, and she does not know where it came from but she suspects.

She is certain Konstin has acquired it more legitimately than his father would have.

Three minutes. Three minutes until she opens the door, until she walks to stand beside her fiancé. He really has been remarkably patient with her. Any other man would have found another woman, but not Raoul.

She did not truly think he would.

She smiles at herself in the mirror, and nods. She is not the woman she would have been if she married Raoul all those years ago. She knows that. She is older, and infinitely wiser, and sometimes she thinks more broken, but all those old wounds are scars now. They cannot hurt her or anyone any more.

And she takes a breath, and takes the bouquet of roses, the first roses she has ever carried for Raoul and they will not be the last. And she knows she would not change a minute of what has happened, knows that if she were to make the choice again she would go back to Erik just the same.

She still got here, after all. She just came a longer way.

And she is happy with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read and commented and kudosed this. Your support means so much and I'm glad you've all enjoyed it!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Matrimony](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8628184) by [ponderinfrustration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration)
  * [Basorexia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9300233) by [ponderinfrustration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration)




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